Crullers’ Tour Diaries
FBT Convention IV

Foreword by Wayne Jackson*

Chief Executive Officer of the AFL and near-FBT Celebrity Skin

I remember vividly my first encounter with the Footy Banter Team, those knockabout larrikins whose high-spirited shenanigans have been amusing footy fans the length and breadth of this long, broad land of ours. It was a chance meeting – one of those occurrences that fate unexpectedly throws up at you which you don’t think much of at the time, but as time passes you come to realise what a turning point it was in your life.

I was leaving the Gee after the 1998 Round 7 clash between North Melbourne (as they were then known) and the Sydney Swans. The Shinboners (as they once were known) got up by ten points in a thriller. “Awesome” Michael O’Loughlin had played a blinder but couldn’t turn the match on his own. As my wife and I walked out of the Great Southern Stand and headed towards the car park, we came across a group of lads in silly caps having a bit of kick to kick outside the ground. As soon as they saw me I knew I was gone – they came charging my way and inundated me with a barrage of questions. “Whaddya think of the NCNN theory, Wayne?” “Why can’t Sydney kids get a kick on the ground?” “Is Michael O’Loughlin the most ‘awesome’ player you have seen?”

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Friday, 7 May 1999

The signs were not good.

I’d been off colour all week with a bout of the ‘flu, I’d been grabbing the ankles at work and those boneheads at Qantas had shifted me onto a flight an hour later than scheduled to get me into Melbourne.

The last few Banter emails prior to the Convention did not bode well for a good weekend – “What the heck is the Melbourne Chapter up to?” screamed the Founding Fathers from on high. “Pull your fingers out! Where’s the organisation here?”

Despite this, I had high hopes of another memorable Convention.

After attending to a few family duties in the afternoon – beers in the city with my siblings – I met Leachy for a few looseners. He laid down the law Teddy Whitten style – “I want you to inspire me at this Convention, Crullers” – and pepped us both up for a big one. Although the Convention didn’t officially start until Saturday, there were plenty of Banterers keen for a pre-Convention Banter session and a few brews.

First stop – the Cricketers.

Leachy and I parked ourselves at a table in the beer garden and before we could sink our laughing gear around a frothy chop TEAM WALDO had arrived. WALDO was there, his brother DEANO WALDO (a mad keen wrestling fan who Leachy and I instantly took a liking to…strictly in the Banter sense, of course) and some moron of a Carlton supporter who was a mate of DEANO WALDO’s. We got stuck into some pre-game Banter and pretty soon Mero had joined us – the lad had crawled out of his sick bed, armed himself with a few of his best Banter lines and was determined to ‘make time pay’ this Convention.

We headed off to the Gee come game time and met up with the Saint under the official FBT pre-Convention Match Meeting Place, the Matty Knights sign in the Olympic Stand Gallery of Skippers. We parked ourselves on the second deck of the Olympic Stand in front of the corporate boxes adjacent to the 50 metre line at the Punt Road end of the ground. It was a perfect night for footy and a perfect night for Banter – the larynx had been loosened by a few lagers, there was an appreciative crowd on hand and there were plenty of soft targets about to show their wares. The Much-Maligned Richo, the Much-Maligned Richmond, the Much-Maligned Giesch, the Much-Receiving Braddles…

Although conditions were perfect, the only thing missing was 36 players out on the field with the ability to put on a display of skilled footy. The game was appalling – the Tigers had their chances but blew it by insisting on passing to their Carlton opponents.

The Blues weren’t much better but had one bloke (Matthew Lappin) who could finish on a few occasions. Worst of all, the FBT members present were subjected to the most obnoxious barracking ever by that wanker that DEANO WALDO had brought along. No-one was more peeved about it than WALDO himself – the straw that broke WALDO’S back was the sarcastic pat on the back when the Tigers managed to get a goal after a dry spell.

Despite the atrocious conditions, the Banter was brilliant from the abridged FBT contingent present. The FBT had the spectators – all keen to have the FBT at its witty best point out the deficiencies of their teams - eating out of the palms of their hands with some magic Banter. Setting aside the false modesty that has become the trademark of the Tour Diaries, I’d have to again lay claim to the best piece of Banter when – after Richo put in a second effort and actually laid a tackle – I theorised that the question “Where were you when Richo laid a tackle?” would soon become the footy equivalent of “Where were you when JFK was shot?”.

Leachy and I were both thinking we were getting some glances from a young female Tigers fan in front of us who was constantly giggling at the champagne Banter the was bubbling forth. I was pretty pleased – the early signs seemed good for some promising Matty Nicks Medal form over the weekend. In the end it was academic – neither of us could believe it when she asked for the phone number of DEANO WALDO’s Carlton-supporting Neanderthal mate.

At game’s end the WALDO BROTHERS were not happy – they walked down to the railing at the front of the second level of the stand and laid a serial-killer stare on Giesch and the Richmond Brains Trust – excuse the footy oxymoron – as they plodded that long, lonely course from the coach’s box to the club rooms. Eager to stir up a headline for the papers the next morning, the FBT made their way down to the Richmond change rooms to see if we couldn’t fire up the most explosive supporters in the league. Sadly, “nothing doing”, as Dennis Commetti would say. The few supporters milling around the club rooms at the end of the game were either little kiddies looking for autographs or gaysexual committeemen looking to spot a bit of footy player butt in the showers post-match. It looks like the Tigers don’t take appalling defeats the way they used to.

We headed back to the Cricketers – the spiritual home away from home for the FBT when not drinking at a Royal Hotel near you – for a few more and made plans to rendezvous with Arma, the Big Arma, the One and Only Arma. The Big Man couldn’t make it to the game – must have been tied up with the Cappuccino set in South Yarra all night.

With taxis as rare as hens’ teeth on Punt Road late on a Friday night, some bright spark had the idea of taking public transport to meet up with Arma in South Yarra. It was very un-FBT like to be on a train, but it worked and has been duly noted as something to try when the FBT next flies north for a Convention.

We hopped off the train at South Yarra, gave Jason Dunstall’s ‘Saloon’ bar a wide berth and met Arma, the Aggressive One, The Rude and The Birdman at the Arcadia Hotel. Arma seemed to think his long Matty Nicks Medal drought – he still hasn’t polled a Matty Nicks Medal vote in a Convention – might end as he tried his luck with a friend of the Aggressive One’s. It was at this point that Dennis Commetti again stepped up to the mike and announced “nothing doing”. Although he didn’t attract the umpires attention enough to crack it for his first Matty Nicks Medal vote, the Big Arma had the crowd lapping up his moves on the dancefloor and impromptu guest vocal appearances with the band.

The Matty Nicks Medal form of the FBT was not good. Yours Crully crashed and burned once and didn’t dip the toe in the water again, WALDO wasted his time with a stinking German backpacker and Leachy showed how desperate the battle for the Nicks would be this weekend when he talked Chardonnay with a chick from Adelaide. WALDO and Your Crully commandeered a pool table and engaged in a handicap match (i.e. absolutely tanked) in what many sages tipped to be a dress rehearsal for the FBT Pool Championship. Given our respective levels of intoxication, the match was never going to be a reliable indicator of what would happen the next night, but it was a confidence booster for Yours Crully to get the four points under the belt.

Overall, it was a fair night given that it really was only a pre-Convention training run. Leachy and I grabbed a late night souvlaki and made our way to our respective Melbourne Headquarters at about four in the morning. Arma, WALDO and the Aggressive One were left to battle it out in a completely inebriated state.

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Saturday, 8 May 1999

Woke up feeling completely ratshit after only four hours of sleep. I knew the lack of sleep would hurt me come Pool Championship time later that evening, but I wasn’t going to let that stand between me and the ultimate in FBT pool playing glory.

It was the old lady’s birthday, but thankfully the olds had driven up to Queensland for a couple of weeks, so family commitments wouldn’t interfere with the Convention.

I took things very leisurely on Saturday morning given my fragile state and rolled up to the Royal around the 1:30 mark. It was a pleasure to see the number one ticket-holder in the Crullers fan club – Li’l Mero - waiting outside the Royal. Obviously the girls behind the bar didn’t interest him too much. Fair enough too – a pair of absolute scrags they were.

Although they were scrubbers of the lowest order, I have to give credit where it’s due –the norks were pretty good. The Royal was certainly better this year than last year, that’s for sure. It was just a shame the FBT weren’t guzzling that much because I didn’t get to place an order and pull out my patented Royal Hotel “I’ll have two jugs please” line.

The team assembled for the Convention proper was Arma, Boydy (as he then was), Leachy, Crullers, Saint, WALDO, Krakatoa and Mero with Junior FBT Supporter’s Club Member, Li’l Mero.

As far as a skilful display of the great game goes, the Essendon v Melbourne clash was the inverse of the previous night’s dud fest. Goals upon goals were scored, the players went hard at it all day and the skills were silky smooth – except perhaps when Michael Symons came close to the ball.

Boydy (as he then was) was buoyed by the success of his tipping during the day and the “SHAT Live Ladder Update” was born. With every lead change at the Gee or from around the grounds, the various Banterers were on the edge of their seats waiting for Crullers to perform the mental gymnastics and spit out the progress SHAT scores.

The idea of the Junior FBT Supporter’s Club was also thrashed about at the Convention. Li’l Mero could join in with the Li’l WALDO’s, the Li’l Punchies and the Li’l Krakatoas (and there won’t be no more of them) and engage in their own spirited Banter. Then we could get the youngsters together at a Junior FBT Convention and give them some guidance on the finer aspects of Footy Banter. Uncle alFie could take them through the rudiments of footy skills, Uncle Arma could brush up their knowledge of standard FBT insults such as “pig rooter”, “twat tonguer” and “gonad gobbler” and Uncle Crullers could teach the young lads all they’ll need to know about competing for the Matty Nicks Medal.

Uncle Crullers certainly didn’t set Li’l Mero a good example vis a vis endurance – I was out by half time and sound asleep as I stretched out over a few seats. I was woken by Li’l Mero saying “Bye Crullers” as he left at half time – Mero had to explain that Uncle Crullers wasn’t feeling well today.

The game ended with Leachy’s Demons running out comfortable winners and Boydy (as he then was) very happy about his position on the SHAT Live Ladder after he’d tipped both the Demons and Saints against the odds.

We made our way out of the top deck of the ’Gee with the traditional FBT training drill down the ramps. A stray left footer from Arma saw the O’Brien’s mini footy sail down between the ramps and disappear on a lower level. Some nipper probably dashed off with it very happy. We had the traditional FBT kick to kick out in the carpark with WALDO’s yellow and black pill and Mero distinguished himself with some high flying speccies into the back of Arma. The Arma back isn’t what it used to be – a chronic case of shagger’s back has restricted his kick to kick activities to more docile environs where he can be sure that his lower lumbar region won’t be used as a step ladder. We merrily kick to kicked away into the sunset, and then in the distance, the Saint spotted our man…

Wayne was again making his way from the Gee as the FBT was lurking around outside. This time we had plenty of yards to make to get him – he wasn’t walking straight into our trap. We bolted his way and as we saw him slink off towards his car, the entire FBT seemed to stop in its tracks and be lost for an idea… There would be no witty repartee like last year, there would be no photos of the FBT waxing philosophical with Wayne, and most of all there would be no “Shut up, Leachy”. Perhaps that special FBT Convention ‘magic’ was missing this year.

After the anti-climax that was the Wayne-spotting, we then made our way to Peter Daicos’s Depot Hotel. It was here that undoubtedly the greatest moments of the Convention would be played out, in the inaugural FBT Pool Competition.

First game was the Shawn Cosgrove - Solway Battle of the Big Men of the FBT – the Saint v Boydy. The Saint came out firing and was quick to establish an early lead. But Boydy, somewhat in the mould of that other mild-mannered chemist who is prone to bouts of white-line fever, Woosher Worsfold, put his head down and cleaned up the Saint in clinical fashion.

Krakatoa then took on the highly fancied (by himself) Arma. In the first of many shocks (this one especially to Arma) on the night, Krakatoa got home to advance to the semis. Arma was about as happy after the loss as noted Eastern philosopher Micky Malthouse is after an Eagles loss.

Crullers then disposed of Leachy as you would expect – an easy 5 ball drubbing without raising a sweat. The only surprise in this game was that Leachy didn’t have to go the drop - the first FBT Convention dacking still eludes us.

WALDO 7/0 then took on the inexperienced Mero – the former was looking home and hosed, but sunk the white in-off the black. It was a tragic end for someone who was highly fancied for the tournament – and not just (as was the case with Arma) fancied by himself.

Boydy then took on Krakatoa in the first semi and finished him off with ease. The Mero – Crullers semi final showdown ebbed and flowed and was quite possibly the match of the tournament. At first Crullers with his brilliant skill was looking the goods, then Mero would be favoured by a remarkable stroke of luck, then Crullers would get up with another stroke of brilliance, then Mero with some more good luck…

In the end, it was not to be. As I’ve always said, pool can be a real lottery – somewhat like one day cricket. Upsets are part and parcel of the game and when you get nixed by an act of sheer flukery, you can either take the loss with good grace or go off into a corner and sulk. Naturally I chose the latter. But don’t worry, I have my revenge mapped out and believe me, there will be a new undisputed King of 7/0 at FBTCV.

In the Grand Final – which really became an irrelevance once the crowd favourite was ousted in the semis – Boydy took the first game and looked set to make it a clean sweep. But Mero staged a remarkable comeback to take the second game. Boydy then took out the third game and the coveted title of FBT Pool Champ. Well done Boydy, but consider yourself lucky that you didn’t have to face the Great Crullers in the Grand Final. Enjoy your moment in the sun, because FBTCV is not far away.

After the personal disappointment of the Pool Comp, we headed off to the Napier Hotel in Fitzroy. This place was an absolute treat for Arma and Crullers – wall to wall Fitzroy memorabilia, including team photos, the odd piece of players’ garb and some Weg posters (none of them from a Grand Final, mind you). WALDO, Arma and Saint got in there first. WALDO found a new technique to give him the headstart in the chase for the Matty Nicks Medal – “Could you mind my footy for a second please girls?” was hardly out of the smooth pickup line copybook, but by jiminey didn’t it work a treat for WALDO? Sure, it didn’t earn him a tongue sambo or even a phone number, but you can bet your bottom dollar that at the next Convention there will be a dozen blokes walking into pubs around Sydney town with footies tucked under their arms on the lookout for suitable footy minders.

Boydy (as he then was) and I headed out to the back bar in pursuit of some suitable pool competition befitting the FBT Pool Champ and the would-be (but for crippling bad luck) FBT Pool Champ. Again, the inherently flukey nature of pool was highlighted when Crullers and Boydy (as he then was) slotted in some blinders but were beaten by a couple of manifestly inferior skivvy-wearing university student types. This really rubbed salt in the wounds. The FBT were clearly the crowd villians – obviously not in favour at all with the motley bunch of uni students, hippies and residents of the Isle of Lesbos who crowded around the table and tried to obstruct their every shot.

We retired to the front bar, where Leachy foolishly reminded us that it was his birthday, and burst into song. Some dimwit piped up and said “It’s my birthday too!” After he told us what his name was he realised his mistake and then said – “But don’t sing happy birthday!” Too late, pal! The FBT were in fine voice again and had the crowd lapping it up. Alas, not a Nicks vote was earned despite all this grandstanding.

After more personal disappointment around the pool table and no Matty Nicks action, the tummies started rumbling so we headed around the corner for a bite at the Perseverance Hotel. The food there was pretty good ye olde pub fayre by FBT Convention standards, but the action really hotted up when WALDO laid down the challenge to Boydy for the title. Boydy agreed to put the title on the line, on condition that WALDO would drop the “7/0” moniker and instead take up “2/3” as his new nickname, Boydy’s thinking being that WALDO was two thirds of the way to a full blown, bona fide, Adelaide Crows supercharged Mullett haircut.

WALDO agreed and commandeered the table from the slowcoach twat tonguers who had been hogging the table for what seemed like an eternity. Saint fired the crowd up in his new role as FBT Ringside Announcer, Crullers gave an explanation of the significance of the bout to a confused young lady sitting by the table and WALDO and Boydy chalked up their cue sticks for the first ever Pool Championship Title Shot.

Once again the mild-mannered chemist showed nerves of steel and calmly proceeded to clean up the table. WALDO didn’t give up without a fight, but he was no match for the FBT Pool Champ.

After the excitement that had gone on before, the night couldn’t have possibly got any better. And it didn’t. WALDO headed to the Rainbow Hotel to see if he could weave his magic with the footy minders. He couldn’t. It wouldn’t have counted for any Nicks points anyway, because no other Banterer accompanied him to witness the goings on. The rest of us headed off to Frostbites in Chapel Street, scene of the legendary BBA and Arma’s filthy spoiling tactics on Crullers at FBTCII.

Alas, the queue at Frostbites was one long oil slick of pimply home boys in Adidas tracksuits. Boydy was the only one adventurous enough to join the line up, the rest of us retired for a soothing cappuccino at a nearby café.

And that was just about it for the main day of FBTCIV. In the wash-up, not a bad day, but obviously a few Banterers had gone out too hard the night before and weren’t up to the task when it counted. A few wounds would need some licking after the pool comp and a few bruised egos will need to be nursed until the next chase for the Matty Nicks Medal.

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Sunday, 9 May 1999

The aftershocks from Saturday were still to come. Tucked into some baked beans on toast and treated myself to the rare privilege of reading the Sunday Age on a Sunday morning. It just doesn’t get any better than this – breakfast with Patrick Smith. After spewing a mouthful of baked beans on the crap Smitty had written this week, I settled into the couch for a Sunday morning of Bruce and the gang. What a special Sunday morning it was – at last, Sportsworld with the footy panel, not that bloody rugby league hotchpotch we get north of the border.

Eventually made my way back to headquarters – The Royal - after lunch. Same sloppy tits as yesterday, same bleary-eyed Banterers as yesterday except for the absent Mero and Krakatoa. The sight of Arma and WALDO tucking into the Royal’s special fish and chips was enough have me reaching for the brown paper bag – luckily, no deposit was made.

We sauntered over to the ’Gee to see Boydy’s No-names take on the Pride of South Australia. The match was alright as far as seeing North stick the boot into the Crows, but the highlight was without doubt the supporter who was fortuitously parked behind the FBT. This bloke was straight out of a 1970s pommy sitcom – a cross between the George from “George and Mildred”, that racist old fart from “Love Thy Neighbour” and that whiny bastard from “On the Buses”. He had the Ian Robbo Robertson extrapolator worked out to perfection. “Six goals wahn to wahn point…I cahn’t bloody belave it…I doon’t know wah Adelaide bothered turnin’ oop. At this rate North’ll score 12 goals this quarta. The Crows maht as well pack oop and go ’ome now…”

And it wasn’t just once or twice…He was at it the whole game. At first he was mildly annoying, but once the FBT truly appreciated the comic genius of this man, he had us all in tears.

Meanwhile, a semi-retarded North supporter (one for the list of Footy Tautologies?) in front was giving Arma a taste of the Sipperdome with his Jack-in-the-Box antics. At every North goal (and there were plenty today) he was out of his seat and waving his scarf from side to side. I don’t think Boydy was too pleased to claim this bloke as one of his own.

It was an effortless afternoon from the FBT – a decent game of footy and brilliant Banter, but with little or no input at all from the FBT.

But as the final siren sounded, it brought the curtain down on yet another Convention. Sure, not the greatest Convention, but a good Convention nonetheless. As Leachy says, “As Ian Chappell says, there’s no such thing as scoring a ‘bad’ century. In the same way Crullers, there’s no such thing as a ‘bad’ Convention.”

So we left, again with that familiar mixed feeling of exhaustion and contentment at the end of the long haul that is an FBT Convention, but before long thoughts turned to when the next gathering would come about...

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The End