Round 4. A little ditty 'bout Garth and Brenton

In the beginning came Brenton.
He was First and he was alone.
Then God took one of Brenton's ribs and made Garth.
You know the rest.*

Brenna's in the box seat. Garth takes the first Jackpot. $40.

*Spoiler alert: it all goes to shit and they end up getting kicked out of paradise.

And we're back

We may be half back rather than full back, but back nonetheless. Welcome to yet another year of PunchDrunkeness. Most have have bobbed up for more, though it looks like we may have had a few retirements/delistings in the off-season.

In an attempt to conserve energy levels, mine and yours, there will be absolutely no unnecessary added extras this year. We're getting back to basics. No more over-use of the pill. No more lairising. No more champagne. Those migraine-inducing ladders have gone the way of Celebrity Head, GrandSunBall and all the rest of the crap that has landed uninvited in your brainbox. 

Likewise the League of Drunks fantasy league has succumbed to an overdose of Bruce Macavaneyesque Cyril-loving star-fucker syndrome that seems to have overtaken all things AFL. Personality-football crisis I reckon.

Personally I'm sick of the same old stars, the anointed new superstars, tired of the box-ticking templated media articles about Essadon, Hawthorn et al, give me some blue-collar battlers for a year or so. I don't reckon I can even hack any magical stories about Bob Murphy, thanks all the same. Give me some grit, some decent analysis and keep your la-de-da romance stories for the wedding pages.

In other good news, the rules are the same this year. While the main prizes are the same, a reduced number of Drunks means reduced Jackpot money, so back to $10 a week. Which brings me to some important and long overdue social housekeeping. Thanks truly to those many of you who threw extra money into the Save Dick's Arse bucket that Brenton very kindly passed around in the days following the Prize-Giving evening last year. I very much appreciate it, I was a tad stressed and more than a little bewildered and your response led to a far more relaxed Grand Final weekend than it would otherwise have been. Thank you.

That's it for speeches, I'll let the ball do the talking. Enjoy the year, though I reckon it's about my turn to win this thing, so you may be wasting your time.

The End

Only 3 days to go 'til we can all sleep til late Feb.

In an otherwise troubling year it's been a relatively good and refreshing season:

- The Hawks are out. Thankfully they'll be in rebuild mode after next year.

- The Dogs are up and about, as a team, as a club and as a serious thing. The fact this has come pretty much out of the blue is a wondrous thing. It gives hope to those of us who support clubs on the south side of the success barrier.
- The Sainters have a rigorous heartbeat.

- The Dee's have a pulse. 

- The Crows have bounced back well from tragedy. We can hate them properly again next year.

- GWS are exciting, although as natural as botoxed plastic, and thankfully ultimately unsuccessful as yet.

- The Dons haven't yet rubbed there arses in our faces (wait til next year).

- The Cats showed it takes more than deep pockets and cherry-picking for ultimate glory.

- Likewise the Pies' recent habit of desperately purchasing celebrity big-name, high-flying, fan-appeasing footballers has led them arguably drifting further from the prize rather than closer.

- Tigers, Roos, Freo, Brisvegas, Gold Coast and, perpetually, Blues all in rebuild.

- Port scratching their heads.
- West Coast may as well go back to the crystal meth. It worked last time.

- And then there are the Swans. There's never a story with the Swans. They're like Kraftwerk only nowhere near as good.

In the land of the Drunk, Bernie, the peoples' favourite, took the silver-plated tinware.
Never has an award been more richly deserved, more popular. More surprising.
He's more than one of the family, he's part of the furniture. And he's really fucken comfy.
Congratubloodylations Bern!

The elephant in the room this year has been the League of Drunks fantasy league comp. Ok, small elephant, but unimaginably important to a very small number of us. It barely rated a mention all year, but all you need to know is Lloydy won again. It must be his 8th, 10th, who knows how many titles. Most importantly he beat The Traders. These are a bunch of, I think 3 guys who do this as their 'thing'. Professionals. Losers. We have the winner right here. Go Andy.

But there is, of course, still unfinished business. 

Tonight we eat, drink and potentially make arses of ourselves as we fork over bucket loads of cash to Bern, Tas, Dickwad and Jackpot Rob.

And on Saturday Ando and I go head to chest (have you seen how tall that fucker is?) in the Grand Final tip-off. May the best me win.

Here's the paper trail:

Finals W1

 Things look a bit like this now:

The tips. All one-sided games apparently. Seems no-one took reality into account.

R23

Today, that young man is no longer young, and the dream is now reality.

There are few PunchDrunk Founding Fathers still going around. From memory Franco Schena, Franco Trobbiani, maybe Harv and, I don't believe so, but maybe Stavros.

As those sage gents were cutting the ribbon on the first (pre) Drunk season in 1988, there by their side, was a young child, agog and still pyjama'd. Possibly still smelling vaguely of breast-milk and up way past his bed-time. That boy, that Founding Foundling, that tousled toddler was none other than Bernie. Bernard O'Seamus Padraig Phelan.

The boy has finally joined joined the ranks of adult Drunks. This year he can sit at the big table with the rest of us, this year he can have the avocado with his his prawn cocktail. This year he can pass on the shandy and have a real VB.

Today this boy is finally a man living his dream.

It won't come as a surprise to any of us that, after leading for the past 15 rounds, Bern has not only held his lead, but continually extended it whenever anyone even looked like making a move.

Congrats Bern old chum. In your modest manner you claim we were foxing and intended to cruelly snatch your impossible-to-lose victory at the last minute. Or worse, took pity on you and let you win. If it were possible both would be true, but alas, they cancel each other out, so you must have won fair and square. You may not believe it, and neither do I, but there you have it.

Tas and Dickwad each gave it a red-hot go, finishing second and third respectively for the second successive year, each with identical point scores to last year. Freaky huh.

Bob Brookmeyer finished 4th, thereby replacing her husband Heylow in this year's finals. Matt and Ando were always hanging about and hung on for finals berths. Garth, after a fourth last year finished 7th and is in for his second successive finals series, and yours truly, Drunkenstein, fell into eighth on the last game of the season after 5 years in the cellar. BobCatter stuck his neck out a little too often and a little too far in the final round, dropping out of the eight. Death or glory.

Here's the final ladder:

A voice from Tigerland

For anyone left on Earth who is yet to hear this or anyone else, including Tigers, who needs more of a laff (do the clicking thing):