It’s that feeling the morning after you have a massive night on the drink. Last night you were an invincible drinking machine, you consumed as much alcohol as Donald Trump’s wife needs to fulfil her matrimonial duties. Beer, wine, spirits, shots and liqueurs, oh why did you need to drink the liqueurs? There was no dessert available, Drambuie has a cool sounding name but so does cyanide. So a thumping headache slowly wakes you from the couple of hours sleep you have had before the pain begins. Your brain feels as though Shane Mumford lined it up from ten metres away and proceeded to use his chest as a hammer to crush the cerebral electrodes you need to function. It’s hard to get your bearings, you remember to breathe, and automatically you swallow to attempt to add moisture to your mouth that feels as questionable as the dodgy story of Harley Bennell’s “indefinite” calf injury. You rub your tongue (which could be mistaken for a shingleback lizard) along your teeth and the sickening taste of the night before comes back to you with a thud. This must be what it’s like to be a Richmond supporter.
Then the sickening feeling the moment your brain starts working and it’s the pain of defeat, worse still it happened on a Friday night, so the rest of the weekend that you had been looking forward to is now a game of avoiding every clown on the radio, TV or ex-mate who seems to think its ok to spray paint a brick in the team colours that beat yours and throw it through your kitchen window just because you have done it to him several times.
My tips to minimise the pain of a heartbreakingly close loss are as follows;
· Don’t buy the paper for a week
· Turn your phone off
· If you must watch TV, try and catch Antique Roadshow, before it starts guess how many people featured will have massive dental problems and obvious gingivitis.
· Tell your loved one you’re going to chop some wood, when they inform you that you don’t have a wood fire, a pile of wood to chop or an axe, calmly state that you have all three and she will never see them.
Like Channel Nine resurrecting the rotting corpse of Daryl Sommers some things never cease to amaze, talk out of the Melbourne v Essendon game is that some of the Demons players got a little bit ahead of themselves and in turn the Bombers had a memorably stirring victory. Last year Paul Roos said that years of painful defeats were holding back The Dees from being able to win consistently, now this group of young men who have achieved as much success as Craig McLachlan and his band Check 1 2, think it will all just happen. It’s as if the club had an old-fashioned fundraiser before the game and hired a hypnotist who convinced the boys it was the 1950’s and they were a part of the great Melbourne sides who won 4 flags in five years. If there was ever a club that shouldn’t drink their own bath water its Melbourne, listening to long suffering Demon supporters is like sitting with a person who has been imprisoned in a basement for years by a deranged psychopath. You grimace with each tale of near escape and your heart falls when they tell of being dragged back to their dank hellhole to resume being humiliated on a daily basis. Now I am not suggesting that Paul Roos is a cruel manipulator who forces supporters to dress up in cut off denim shorts and awkwardly dance to the song “Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon”. I’ll let the courts decide that.
Speaking of hypnotists, back in my playing days the Chooks hired a hypnotist after one of our matches. I’m told it was a combination of excess alcohol consumption, sinus medication and repressed memories that caused me to curtail the evening when it all got a bit awkward. How was I to know that when it was my turn, instead of acting like a window cleaner when the word “cash or card’ was mentioned I started to tell a disturbing story of a time when I was interfered with by a large blonde woman. The hypnotist although shocked must have known this was not something he could just sweep under the carpet and started asking questions to uncover this scandal. He wrapped it up pretty quickly though when I set the scene that I was 24 at the time and the phrase “touching my special area” was actually the time she had been caught going through my wallet after she had already been paid.