Grand final special: neither grand nor special

A very punishing weekend of sport, in the way that people who talk loudly about themselves at parties are very punishing people. Which is why it's taken until first practice at Bathurst to finally extrude our 2007 Footy Grand Final(s) Report.

Saturday: Sup 'G
Saturday afternoon's stoush between the Port Power Tools and the Geelong Unemployed Engine Assemblers at the 'G was in fact the first AFL Grand Final (indeed, the first whole game of AFL football) Your Correspondent has sat through for many years, probably since the short-lived love affair between the Lions and south-east Queensland. This year's telecast was brought to me in association with Sky Sport, Choadafone broadband and figuring out how to delay the satellite signal just long enough to sync the pics up with Roy and HG's online call (a proprietary methodology involving a DVD recorder and a fair amount of arse). This even enabled enjoyment of the pre-match entertainment provided by Geelong's finest bogan exports Jet, though they seemed to be neither enjoying the festivities nor anywhere near in sync themselves. This probably had something to do with the astonishing level to which the AFL had whored its corporate arse to major sponsors Toyota, demonstrated by Jet's bass player Mark being obliged to apply a broad strip of the roadies' best friend, gaffa tape, over the Ford logo on his Cats jersey. The AFL's commercial reamage was further highlighted by the retiring players' parade which took place not in visibility-friendly open-topped cars, as you'd probably expect, but in ALL NEW KLUGERS (in case you misheard the forty-seven booming ground annoucements), i.e. big hulking 4WDs with tinted windows. Geniarse. Then again Toyota don't get a lot of love out of the week immediately after the Grand Final, that of Bathurst, with Ford and Holden conspiring to get a monumental PR free-kick out of their exclusive involvement in V8 Supercars (and if Toyota could find enough content in their trouser to build a decent rear-drive V8 sedan, they might even get an invite to play in that sandpit too) so it wasn't that surprising, just a bit embarrassing. Of course Geelong went on to balls up Toyota's big afternoon by winning the Big Cheese On Offer and their captain giving a very public shout-out to their sponsors' product on the victory dais...

We're focusing on the peripherals of the game for one fairly considerable reason: there was no game. In light of this, let me tell you the story of a football club called Port Adelaide. They stink. The End. It was for good reason that HG Nelson started calling them as the Port Adelaide Dickheads midway through the second quarter; they were less use than a busted arse on International Busted Arse Free Day. As bad as Port were, Geelong were stoopid-good. The Bartel kiddie appeared very much worthy of the Brownlow (and, to my way of thinking, the Norm Smith as well, though that went to Steve Johnson - the start of a busy week for him having to back up in his old man's Falcon at Bathurst). As for the Sons Of God, the Ablett boys demonstrated conclusively the important role played by good genetics in being a top-line AFL footballer. As well as the important role played by not being on smack.





















Propecia: about the only banned drug Ablett Snr wasn't on

Sunday: Insert 'Perfect Storm' pun here, pause for editing/lynching
The 'Night Grand Final' may still piss off the purists, but one thing's fo' sho' - it makes for a markedly less shitbox pre-match show. Amazing what can be achieved with a couple of projectors from Rentlo, some old bedsheets and a stiff westerly, though someone really needs to enrol Darren Lockyer in the Larry Emdur 'Price Is Right' School of Waving Convincingly On Camera. He looked about as comfortable as Todd Kelly's Sandown 500 co-driver on race morning, on finding out the Toddler (a) had violent projectile gastric and (b) was taking the first stint of the race. As Philthy Phil from Grinspoon would have said, it was a hard act to follow. Actually Phil would probably have nicked the HRT Commodore from around the back of the pits while Toddler was parked on the bowl and tried to hock it at Theft Converters for P money. What has this got to do with the NRL Grand Final? Two fifths of fuck all, naturally, but thanks for asking. As predicted, the battle between the two most keenly disliked teams in the NRL was dominated by the News Limited Storm who eviscerated the Sea Urkels 34-8 in the most one-sided display of a man kicking a dog seen in... about a day and a half. Earlier, in the most anticipated reserve grade final since ever, the Northern South Sydney Rabid Bears were twenty seconds from winning the cup before the baby Eelses had to go fuck it up for them. Still, old man Peachey's wonderful and emotive post-match interview was worth the price of admission in itself. But even watching North Sydney's murderers (and South Sydney's vanquishers) getting their deserved comeuppance in the Big One was difficult to enjoy, as it was at the hands of a soulless, supporterless, Murdoch-owned 'franchise' with the integrity of a Liberal party campaign strategist and the spirit of a dentist's waiting room.














The Panthers beat the Eels in the Flegg final, thanks to Jason Akermanis

All in all, a shit weekend really, really topped off by former Raiders ballboy Mark Webber getting fucked over when within a poofteenth of leading the Jap GP at Fuji International Aquajet. Despite coming down with a touch of the Toddlers and hurling inside his helmet in the first couple of laps, it was a different streak of sick who ended his tilt - one named Sebastian Vettel, his pseudo-teammate from the other Red Bull team, who somehow conspired to pile into Webber while tooling around behind the safety car while Alonso's prang was being cleaned up and Nando was trying to figure out whether he could pin fault on someone else so as not to lose his 100% no-claim bonus. What a tool. Vettel I mean, not Nando, though he's looking a bit tardescent after parking his otherwise functional MP4/twentysomething McLaren in the roadside furniture and effectively conceding the F1 title to race winner Lewis 'Not a Jewess' Hamiltron. Latest rumours have Nando moving to Scuderia Ferret next year, with Felipe Massa Attack supposedly being farmed out to Toyota (to drive an ALL NEW KLUGER perhaps?) in place of the recently released Half Schumacher. Nando's teammate would then be Look-At-Me-Kimi Raikkonen, who in unrelated news has been vastly and repeatedly underrated by this column for what he actually is: a lunatic pisshound of the highest order. He might be the most boring post-race-interviewee since Mika Hakkinen (who was usually taking the piss anyway) but you have to give kudos to a man prepared to spend his off-weekends copiloting his mates' racing powerboat dressed in a gorilla suit, or entering snowmobile races under the name of James Hunt (lunatic pisshound F1 driver of 30 years ago.)













Of course 'James Hunt' could just be rhyming slang

Again, what has this to do with the Grand Final? Less than two fifths of fuck-all, as above, but both games were fucking appalling so I've got to write about something yeah?

Actually I've made it to the bottom of the page so I can stop now. Bathurst in three sleeps, kids. Get your drinking caps on. The Doctor is OUT.