Both Sides of the Dome, or, McLaren=Brad Johnson’s Bitch



In an effort to delve deeper into the sociological side of football fan-ism, this week the Captain and I embarked on a good ol’ fashioned journey of discovery. It was an experiment to contrast and compare Telstra Dome’s two vastly different worlds: the rather exclusive Medallion Club, and the stadium’s general admission section. After drawing the long straw, my good friend, The Captain, viewed Sunday’s Cats v Bulldogs game from the comfy surroundings of the Medallion Club – the small mid-section of the stadium where only the elite are permitted entry, and where dress codes apply. I, on the other hand, watched from TD’s General Admission section (Aisle 44, Row S) – the vast upper-third of the football stadium, where the person sitting next to you is either a God fearing family man, or a drunken ex-con who had only minutes before the game exchanged a blood stained machete for his ticket. It was an experiment we’d hoped would open the lines of understanding between the two worlds, and in some way merge the boundaries between football’s high-class fanatics and foul mouthed plebs. What we actually achieved however is anyone’s guess, you can draw your own conclusions from the following results, but two things were crystal clear regardless of where you were sitting. Number one, it was a great game. Number two (in general admission rhetoric), umpire McLaren, you’re an absolute prick!

Pre-Game

Captain: Ah, what a wonderful afternoon for a match! A quick brunch with the family and then father steers the latest model Honda Accord (Euro) under the great Telstra Dome to our reserved parking. The friendly staff directs us to the elevator, which, unfortunately, must be shared with the common, ‘general admission’, folk. I can smell their lower-middle class breakfasts on their collective breath. Not to worry, another 10 metres and an electronic handshake between scanner and barcode will separate the wheat from the chaff. Finally, here we are, the Medallion Club!

Mrs. Watson: After forking out over five bucks for a semi-cold beer, I locate my brother and his friends all the way up in row S of Level 3. I do my best to squeeze past an old woman with an oversized Bulldogs doona spread over her legs on the way to my seat, but this inevitably results in me spilling half a cup of draught over the feet of the next three people in the row. Here’s a word of advice, football going Grandmothers; if the blood flow to your legs is so bad that you need a doona to keep them warm for the two hour duration of an indoor game of football, then you’re probably better off tucked up next to the heater at home. You’re making my beer runs much more difficult than they need to be! After making the arduous journey from the aisle to my seat (using the crotch to face method), I wonder what the temperature’s like in the Medallion Club. I peer down to try and spot my good friend, The Capatin.

One of the first things you notice about a packed stadium, I reckon, is that there’s always a section of seating which appears to be dead empty in comparison to your own section. This is usually the members’ area, or some other elitist/facist quarter where regular working Australians, or anyone who’s not white, are kept out thanks to barbed wire or some elaborate ticketing system. It’s no different at Telstra Dome either. But here’s a suggestion for whoever’s in charge down there at TD; if only a quarter of the snobby bastards with “exclusive” access to your premium Medallion Club section are going to turn up, then why not give those of us up in level 3, squeezed in like bloody pilchards, a break, and reduce the amount of exclusive seats by three quarters? It’s just that it’s a little fuckin’ insulting when us ticket holding football goers with no leg room have to stare in envy at those Medallion Club bastards with seemingly 103 seats each to choose from. It’s also probably safe to assume that most of these jerks probably didn’t fork out a damn cent for the corporate membership they’re sponging off, so why not look out for those of us who actually paid to get in? Sure, there’d be no profit made from such an overhaul, but like I say, it’s just a suggestion.

1st Quarter

Captain: I find my way to Aisle 22, Row A; right in the front. This will be fine, not as good as the seats I had when José Carreras was in town, but they’ll do. I can’t help but feel that the air is somehow cleaner, fresher in here. We are in the forward pocket at the Lockett end; the end to which Geelong will kick first. Chris Grant’s chin looks even bigger in person. Here comes our waiter; oh, didn’t I tell you about the in (padded) seat service? Three ales, my good man, and make them something local. Carlton Draught? How quaint. Yes, that will be fine. Glad I didn’t have to que the bar, I may have missed McCarthy marking and kicking an early goal. Let’s hope Geelong’s height can stretch the under-manned Bulldogs defence, like a team of QC’s up against a court appointed public lawyer. Was that Steve Johnson who just goaled from a tight angle? I must say I’ve always had a soft spot for that sort of player; troubled yet full of potential. I wonder if he mightn’t benefit from a mentor of some sort. I must remember to mention this to Frank at the next President’s lunch. I hope they serve the veal.

Mrs. Watson: Early in the first quarter a family of Canadian tourists, seated directly in front of us, comments on the colourful language coming from my friends and I. “We’re certainly getting an education,” she declares. For me, Telstra Dome always takes a little getting used to, especially coming from the outer at KP. It’s not TD’s closed roof, or its organised beer queue, but it’s just that it’s a little hard to adjust to the family atmosphere of this stadium. You have to watch your language a little bit more, keep yourself under control, because here at TD they don’t separate the drunks from the families, just the rich, or pseudo rich, from the not rich.

Right now, I feel as though they should separate Canadians from Australians at AFL matches. After enduring ten minutes of stupid questions like, “why do they keep blowing the whistle?”, “what’s the difference between the referees in yellow, and the referees in white?,” and “what’s a runner?”, a friend of mine lets rip with a little more cultural education. “You fuckin’ white maggot, McLaren!” He’s taking full advantage of the white uniforms the umpires are wearing for Heritage Round. McLaren is making some ridiculous calls, but some terrible skills (James Kelly, I’m looking in your direction), and bad decisions have resulted in costly turnovers and goals, so it feels as though the Cats have really kept the Bulldogs in it. As the siren sounds I do a beer burp with my mouth closed and taste calamari. “Why wasn’t the Australian national anthem sung before the game,” one of the Canadians asks, “it’s not very patriotic.” This is going to be a long day.

2nd Quarter

Captain: You know, it’s nice to have a bit of elbow room; with all these empty seats it’s not shoulder-to-shoulder like it can be in the public areas. No doubt Mrs. Watson is getting a snoot full of some schleps overdose of Brut’ 33 as we speak. The Medallion Club think of everything. I do say, this umpiring has left a lot to be desired so far; excuse me Mr. McLaren, is that not the exact same infringement you whistled a minute ago, only this time perpetrated against the Geelong player? No? My apologies. Some consistency would vastly improve this facet of the game, however. I wonder if umpire McLaren and Brad Johnson have some sort of personal relationship outside the game.

Mrs. Watson: “What are you doing in Geelong’s forward line McLaren,” someone in Row V yells, “Brad Johnson wants a blow job!?” Everyone finds it funny but only my friends and I laugh. I wonder if the jokes in the Medallion Club are as creative as that, and then I wonder whether any of them are actually watching the game. The Bulldogs pull away by 23 points after Brad Johnson kicks another goal on Harley. He’s giving the Geelong defender an absolute bath, and there’s already been three or four towel jokes directed at Harley. The signs are bad. One of the Canadians in front of me has taken 5 photos of a goal umpire on her digital camera; for the folks back home, I presume. For some reason I’m singing ‘More Than a Feeling’, by the band Boston, in my head, just as Henry Playfair drops his fifth easy mark, and all looks hopeless. That guy couldn’t catch HIV in a gay three-way with Magic Johnson and Peter Allen, and he’s really starting to give me the shits. By the time the first half ends though, the Cats’ve pegged the lead back to just 5 points, kicking 4 of the last five goals. I wait a few minutes for those in need of a halftime piss to clear out, before I make a quick dash to the Cougar Bar to meet The Captain.

Halftime

Captain: The good news is we have played poorly and are only down by 5 points; some skills sessions are hopefully scheduled this week. The bad news is I have to head to the ‘Cougar Bar’ to meet Mrs. Watson, a most vulgar of establishments that, despite it’s name, is not home to any large predatory felines. Shame really, looking around I see plenty of potential feed for them. You alright, Mrs. Watson? Safe. See you after the game. (I must make mention of Daniel Motlop here, as he was lining up for the potential game winning goal at the exact moment we happened to be in there. Great mark, but when the siren went he looked like someone had just told him he’d been scheduled for a 4 hour prostate exam. I made note of this to Mrs. Watson as Motlop dutifully missed what might be termed, ‘a soda’. Perhaps Mark Williams will schedule that exam after all.)

3rd Quarter

Captain: More in-seat beer delivery as the Cats start fast. That’s 6 of the last 7 goals of the match for Geelong, who have taken a small lead. I missed who kicked these goals as I was perusing my complimentary copy of the Sunday Age; ‘The Outsider’, a classic work of 20th-century fiction by Albert Camus has been translated for the stage and is on in Melbourne this week. Fantastic. Scarlett appears to be without an opponent while Tom Harley has had his colours significantly lowered by Bradley Johnson; Father, have you Bomber’s blackberry number? Something needs to be done about this. And while you’re at it, let him know that it’s good to see David Wojinscki back, Andrew Mackie is playing probably the best game of his under-achieving career and that Joel Corey is holding this team together.

Mrs. Watson: The 3rd quarter’s well and truly underway by the time I get back to Aisle 44. Grandma grunts at me as I trod on her doona while squeezing past (ass to face, this time). Somewhere between the half time siren and me returning from the Cougar bar, a young Bulldogs fan has made himself comfortable in the seat directly behind mine. I ask him nicely to remove his feet from the back of my chair, which he does, but only after his father nudges him. The old man reeks of Brut 33. Only seconds after sitting down the kid starts a running commentary of the game which will continue for the rest of the match. He’s even taken on the role of his own special comments man: “West should’ve done this,” or, “Johnson’s taken this many marks since half time,” or, “I’m currently giving this many people the fucking shits!” To cope with this constant nattering I wave down that beer waiter the Captain was telling me about at half time, but he’s not really there. I've forgotten where I am. I consider running Granny’s doona gauntlet but I don’t feel confident she’ll let me pass a third time. This is going to be a long half. Another McLaren call results in a Bulldog goal. It’s starting to feel as though these Western pricks haven’t really earned one of their own today. Someone drops a C-Bomb.

4th Quarter

Captain: Bradley Ottens gets on the end of a long kick to the goal square and kicks his second major for the day. This crude from of attack seems most effective; what a stroke of luck that I was able to contact Bomber. I’m not sure we even ordered these beers but we somehow have another round. This waiter must be psychic, or, if Lips read the rest of my message, Tom Harley. I wonder if either Lindsay Gilbee or Jordan McMahon has a direct opponent. It doesn’t seem to be the case. Perhaps these Bulldogs are as hard to tell apart for the Geelong players as they are for their fans. I couldn’t tell Daniel Cross from Dale Morris if my Range Rover depended on it. This is exciting! Josh Hunt takes a crucial mark right on the goal-line, preserving the current dead-locked score. He has certainly impressed today, perhaps he has been receiving our advice. I still think he would be better utilized delivering the ball into the forward line, however. Question: Is it wrong for one to be reasonably satisfied with a draw, if only to avoid defeat? Never mind, that question can remain rhetorical for now, as Ottens has kicked a most crucial behind. It was a good mark too, and not his only one; he certainly has sticky fingers today. Look out, Joshua! Behind you lurks a bald midget who has pulled on a Western Bulldogs jumper! Nathan Eagleton? Oh, how’d he get on the field? That devilish, cunningly sly Rodney Eade; he’d do well in real estate. A few more anxious moments and then, siren! Whew! What a contest, what a stadium, what a FUCKED UP UMPIRING PERFORMANCE! SCOTT MCLAREN MAY YOU BURN IN HELL!!!!!! You know what they say; you can take the boy out the KP outer...

Mrs. Watson: I spend the majority of the final quarter with my Cats scarf wrapped tightly around my head. Not only does it muffle out the sound of mini Wallsy’s irritating monologue still echoing throughout Level 3, but it also covers my eyes; this game, afterall, is too close to watch. I sneak an extended peak during extra time and see that the Canadians look bored. They seem confused, tired, and kinda embarrassed by the amount of yelling and screaming going on. They wanted an education, I think to myself. When Scumbag marks within scoring range, the kid behind me shuts up for the first time in almost an hour, and I pray for a score of any kind. It looks like a goal, and the Canadians spring to life; the Cats must have won them over. “Did it count,” one of them asks. If only she could see the scoreboard from Row R, she wouldn’t have to ask. “It’s a one pointer,” her friend replies.

Out.