Let’s forget about the fact that I was hell-pissed on Grand Final Day Mark I. Let’s forget about the facts that I lost my voice, and ended up shouting my impecunious brother for the whole afternoon, and blew my beer budget for the entire fortnight in one go.

Instead, let’s enjoy the fact that it was a brilliant game, and there’s not one player on the day who isn’t looking back at every second he played and wondering if he’d just held that tackle, kicked a bit straighter, or run just that bit faster would he be wearing a Premiership medallion right now, instead of tossing and turning in bed waiting for the Replay.

Let’s forget about the fact that I cried all the way home and had to be put to bed when I got there after last year’s St Kilda defeat, and the memory of that pain seared me about sixty times during GF I, only to be replaced at the end by an emptiness best dealt with by hysterical laughter. And more beer. Instead, let’s celebrate the fact that our game, bizarre and unique in the world, still hasn’t worked out what to do in the event of a tie.

It would be kind of embarrassing to print an October Tribune without a Grand Final write-up, so we extended deadline beyond the weekend of GF II. At time of writing this particular sentence, it’s the Thursday night before, so in a few hundred words’ time, you’ll get to see my thoughts, or at least share my pain, on the Decider.

Until then I think I should just do what I do best, or at least compulsively: shout about things.

Hooooboy, how about those Commonwealth Games, eh? You all know how I felt about Beijing getting the Olympics, and how surprised I was that none of the stadia fell down thanks to dodgy contractors. Now we get Delhi, and it looks like that kind of shit is really going to happen. Corruption happens everywhere that billions of government dollars are being thrown around, but China has the advantage over India of being a totalitarian state whose rulers are smart enough to know that buildings full of tourists and foreign dignitaries falling over is not a good look.

India’s government, or at least some of them, are no doubt just as smart, but they don’t have the advantage of summary execution and state-run media and courts to keep people in line. As a human, I really hope nobody dies or gets hurt due to bridges collapsing or ceilings falling in, but as a Juzzy, I’m really hoping that great chunks of concrete drop into the pool during an event, or the main stadium melts in the rain. And the prospect of the entire Australian swimming team contracting dengue fever won’t make me poo myself with laughter at all.

I will, like may Australians, be both embarrassed and disgusted as our media and our politicians gush over all the gold medals we win, like that shit matters at all. I will, like many Australians, do mental arithmetic on how much each medal cost, then cast my eye over the moth-eaten tennis balls and flat footballs at my daughter’s school. I’ll flick to the sports results in the paper, and note that the section’s getting smaller and smaller as country and suburban teams, and entire leagues, fold or amalgamate due to lack of funds and participants. And I’ll be mighty fucking angry that politicians who profess to give a fuck about fitness and health and participation in sport do nothing to assist you and me and our kids in getting involved, because we don’t give them photo opportunities and box seats at the big events.

On a lighter note, I’m glad to see that one of my suggestions to the world’s police forces has finally been adopted by Delhi. Trained monkeys. Yes, trained monkeys. Large, aggressive, but apparently trained, Langur monkeys have been recruited to Games venues to protect people from the smaller wild monkeys that run riot around Indian cities, grabbing handbags, sunglasses and genitals. The Victorian OPI are looking into recruiting these simian bad boys after the Games, as their strike rate is higher and they leave fewer documents lying around than the current “investigators”.

So, it’s Saturday night. I came home and slept off most of the beer, but none of the sad. Two things must be said, and both of them hurt. Collingwood were very very good, and St Kilda were very very ordinary.

There is nothing for either side to take from this game, except, for Collingwood, a flag. It’s not hard to win by ten goals when your opponents keep passing it to you and for some reason seem allergic to tackling. It’s not hard to win by ten goals when the ball spends eighty percent of the game inside your 50.

Which is not to detract from Collingwood’s performance; they were, as I said, very very good. In something of an understatement, it’s somewhat disappointing that St Kilda picked today of all days to have their worst game of the year.

I think that’ll do.

On Sunday we went to the Arcadience Masquerade Ball in Northcote (check out Captain Fabulous and Lady Mystere on facebook and the website), so drove along Punt Rd to get there. Collingwood had had their post-GF family day celebration in one of the parks, and it was heartening to see all the empty plastic bags and half-eaten children bobbing gently in the wind. I’m glad they all had fun.

On a slightly darker note, not so nice to see that a couple of Collingwood players allegedly tried to celebrate allegedly with a bit of “you done mate? My turn”, which is not a good advertisement for football players or men in general. What am I saying? It’s fucking disgusting. If it’s true.

The situation is helped not at all by the sudden appearance on Twitter of one the game’s most outstanding prize idiots. Peter ”Spida” Everitt, labouring under the misapprehension that anything he has to say on any topic whatsoever is going to be of any value to anyone, felt it necessary to throw in a few choice words about women who go home with a footballer after a few drinks are clearly consenting to whatever and whoever should eventuate, and only complain about it when they wake up the next morning with a guilty conscience.

He spent the rest of the day trying to defend himself, although judging by the sudden disappearance of spelling and punctuation errors, it looked to me like the retractions were written by a hastily-engaged PR flack. I’m tipping Sam Newman’s bleeding from all orifices that he doesn’t have a chance to say something tasteful now that the Footy Show’s in its summer hiatus. Maybe he should fuck off, too.

It’s currently Day Two or something of the Commonwealth Games, and it looks like a roaring success: Australia’s netball team scored more goals (76) against Samoa than there were people watching the game. Nothing has fallen over yet. Hockey is second only to cricket in India, and they can’t get more than a hundred to some of the games. But, nothing has fallen over yet, so I suppose we shouldn’t complain. Yet.

Day Three, and there’s still plenty to complain about – there’s no point going into how lame the coverage is, we all know that SBS and the ABC (when they get access to it) are the only networks who know how to broadcast big, long-running sport events. The little bit of coverage I watched last night was hysterical, however. The highest-ranked male Indian tennis player was playing, and still the only spectators were other (mostly Australian) athletes.

Whatever else happens, these Commonwealth Games should prove once and for all that the ONLY beneficiaries of these kind of events are property developers, dodgy contractors, and parasitic politicians and celebrities (are there any other kind?)

A selection of my tweets from Grand Final day:

Shitting. Bullets. #gosaints

2:25 PM Oct 2nd via TweetDeck

I am not enjoying this.

3:28 PM Oct 2nd via TweetDeck

Fuck. Arse. Crabs. Yeast infection. Scrotum. Dickbiscuit.#gosaints

3:40 PM Oct 2nd via TweetDeck

Fuck

4:03 PM Oct 2nd via TweetDeck

Where’s Phil nitzschke when you need him? #gosaints

4:11 PM Oct 2nd via TweetDeck

#cantwatchanymore

4:23 PM Oct 2nd via TweetDeck

The next person who says ‘collingwood’ goes to hospital.

5:11 PM Oct 2nd via TweetDeck

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