Mamma mia, here we go againMy my, how did you deceive me?Mamma mia, are we last again?My my, just how much I’ve missed youYes, I’ve been broken-heartedBlue since the day we partedWhy, why – did I ever let you go?*
Mr Einstein and his Bluebell prepare to leave the stadium at half time:
Where are we going, Einstein?Shut up, and get in the car!What? Are you serious? They’ll see us leave, for sure.Let ’em. I don’t care anymore.Where’s the Messiah? You said he’d be here by half time?He’s not coming…Einstein! How can we go through the season without him? He had the plan, he knew every angle, he studied…Forget about him! We’re improvising from here on, If you don‘t have the stomach, for it – get out.Einstein, what happened to the Messiah? Is he alright? You two were so close; you’d been together so many years…Leave it alone, Dix.
He taught you so much, Einstein. You always said you felt like a small-time chiseler until the Messiah taught you about your – what did you call it? Your… manifest destiny! And what about all that French poetic realism, and Jacobean tragedy, and Expressionism! You used to love to listen to his theories – why isn’t he here, Einstein? Wh–Because I killed him! I couldn’t stand it anymore! I couldn’t take another minute of his blather about Judeo-Christian patriarchal systems and structuro-semiological judgments. My head was going to explode!My God, Einstein – what did you do?Let’s just say I deconstructed him.You’ve finished us, Einstein. I hope you know that. We’re doomed.What else is new? Everybody dies. In the meantime, we’ll be able to live again, like real people, not like little symbols on his big player blackboard.What are we going to do now, Einstein?We’re going to keep moving Dix. Once a deal gets queered, that’s when things get interesting.Shut up, Einstein. Just shut up and drive fast.**
Groan! I hate losing. And I hate Optus Dome. Three generations of Einsteins have had their ashes scattered on the sacred turf of Parc du Princes. The family has scattered neither seeds nor blood nor ashes on the Astroturf at Notre Dome.
But as Samuel Johnson once said: “A blade of grass is a blade of grass.”
At the MCG “fulfillment centre” we are giants. At Notre Dome we are but pygmies. The Hunchbacks of Notre Dome, no less. I know we can’t go back to the coliseum of our conquering champions. That wonderful Nirvana where the picket fences around half the boundary proudly proclaimed the mantra of the millennium: “You bunch of galahs couldn’t beat Carlton in a month of Sundays!”
My grandchildren try to tell me that Notre Dome is some sort of Stadium Arcadium, where the Blue Hot Chili Peppers strut their stuff. But I’m not into post-constructivism. I just want my old playpen back, et cetera, and so on, and so forth. Mamma mia! Mamma mia! Mamma mia, let them go.
Japanese people have the proven ability to endure long periods of suffering, torment and subservience. This occurs on a daily basis – the laws of physics are contravened as 4,000 people pack into a train carriage that has been built for 55 normal sized people.
I would rather ride the Tokyo trains than have Carlton lose to Essendon.
That “Ghost Who” Walker boy, Tex, looked alright in the first half. He gets the gold skull cap. I can’t be bothered giving silvers. I’m too depressed!
A short sharp victory over Essendon next week will do wonders for my slough of despond. Get on the bandwagon while there’s still room. Call 1300 72 79 81. Carna Blues! – TERRY MAHER & BRYAN McCAUSLAND
* (with apologies to Benny Andersson, Bjorn Ulvaeus, Stig Anderson from Abba.)** (with apologies to Ben Maddow and John Huston from the screenplay of The Asphalt Jungle – from a novel by W.R. Burnett.)
