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Saturday, 17 May 1999

Another day, another Convention.

Knowing that this would be the shortest Convention in terms of official activities and the most poorly attended in terms of numbers, I knew it had to be something special to make sure that the Tour Diaries were their usual voluminous self.

To this end, I made sure that nothing slipped through the cracks and that everything that was said and done was duly noted in the Official Crullers’ Tour Diaries Notepad.

I’d had a big one the night before with the end of season “Brownwing” presentation for the Schemers indoor cricket team. I’d spent a fair part of the night in my dual Bruce McAvaney / Ross Oakley role of compere and vote announcer for the night, so I had to make sure the tonsils were well lubricated throughout the night. Come Saturday morning, it appeared the tonsils were in a fair state but the liver had been given too much of a workout. In other words a typical Saturday morning recovery effort for Crullers.

I’d arranged with the Big Arma – the One and Only Arma, The Arma of the Century – to make my old watering hole, the Bank Hotel in Newtown, the meeting point for FBTCV. I rocked up at midday as scheduled with the Official Crullers’ Tour Diaries Notepad, camera and deflated Swans footy. I was fired up and ready for another big Convention. Luckily I had the presence of mind to bring along the Saturday paper, because the other Jabronis were at least a half hour late.

Arma and WALDO made the first grand entrance, WALDO resplendent in his new Undertaker-inspired goatee. He wasted no time in whipping out the Footy Record from the previous night’s game in which he’d recorded all the goal-kicking stats of the Tigers’ romp against the rudderless Demons. He was ready for Leachy when the boy made his appearance.

Arma raised a glass and declared the Convention officially open and with that we got stuck into the first of many frothy chops for the day. (In the case of the slightly under the weather WALDO, the first of many cokes for the day. Full credit to the lad though, he did pull himself off his deathbed to make it to the Convention, which is more than can be said for other Banterers…)

WALDO and the Big Arma then tested out Crullers’ knowledge of the infamous 1991 Round 7 (or was it Round 6?) Fitzroy v Crows clash at Football Park. Macho Man and Cadbury Mark of the Year contender Peter Carey had listed as one of his most controversial moments the free he’d paid against the Roys to Rod Jameson which resulted in a Crows goal, a narrow win to the Crows and a kick in the guts to the most downtrodden and abused football club in history. This was a surprise to us all, as we’d thought it was Anton “I’m not influenced by Adelaide crowds” McKernan who had sacrificed the Roys that night on the AFL’s national expansion altar. WALDO and Arma went back to the video tape to check Pete McKenna’s commentary and the anecdote in the Footy Record checked out – it wasn’t actually clear which of the field umpires had paid the free.

After a few moments of remorseful thoughts – “Gee, was I too harsh on the ump?” – and the suggestion by WALDO that maybe we owed the much-maligned Anton McKernan an apology, Arma and I both agreed that he must’ve deserved a bagging for something else he’d done wrong to the Roys along the line.

I had the pleasure of presenting the boys with the latest round of FBT Merchandise, once again courtesy of the Saint. The Saint’s merchandise efforts at Summer Slam have gone down in FBT Folklore, but the Elder Statesman of the FBT has done his merchandising reputation no damage at all with his latest contribution, the Official FBT Business Cards.

It was an absolute treat when I got the mail at work during the week and opened up the personalised business cards:

The Footy Banter Team

taking it one week at a time!

https://www.angelfire.com/ok/footybanter/

Crullers

Gold Member

Tour Diarist, Superintendent of SHAT

This would no doubt be an invaluable tool for FBT members, whether they be seeking to support their bona fides when chasing an elusive skin, or whether they’re desperate to impress in their quest for an even more elusive Matty Nicks Medal vote.

WALDO entertained us with stories of his World Cup travels - how he skinned the cup, how Geoff Boycott said “Don’t be so stupid laddy” to WALDO’s skinning proposition and how WALDO and a bunch of Aussies sang a Birmingham pub down after the Aussies’ semi-final ‘victory’. They adapted every Victorian footy club’s theme song to substitute “Australia” for the team’s name and “green and gold” for the team’s colours. It’s the sort of stuff that had us rushing out to the travel agents to book our airfares for the Caribbean in 2003.

Leachy’s late arrival presented some early logistical problems vis a vis the pool table, so it was decided (by Arma) that WALDO and Crullers would play first for the privilege to play the Big Arma. No sooner had I racked up the agates than WALDO disappeared. After he’d been gone five minutes and it finally twigged that he was backing one out and not just shaking hands with the unemployed, Arma and I got into combat. No surprises in the first game of the afternoon – a comfortable victory to Crullers. Arma must have been on the wacky tobacky, as he commandeered the Official Crullers’ Tour Diaries Note Pad and scribbled in a childish scrawl “CRULLERS BEATS ARMA IN AN ABSOLUTE UPSET”.

WALDO came back from the can about the same time as Leachy graced us with his presence and the tag-team action was on.

The WALDO-Crullers tag team won the first game against Leachy and Arma in comfortable fashion. WALDO and Crullers were well placed in the second game when Arma holed the black. Sure, we had five coloured balls on the table to their three, but it was the sort of situation which would’ve inspired an “I reckon you’re ok here” from the Arma if he was on our side. After Arma sunk the black, Crullers tried to clean up the remaining balls on the table, but Arma butted in and swept all the balls into the pockets in an act of sheer frustration (Don). Leachy piped up with “You’ve gotta take the boy off…” in his best Slug “Ray” Jordon nasally whine.

WALDO and Crullers kept the non-FBT challengers at bay for a couple of games and when Arma and Leachy returned to the table, Crullers was starting to find a bit of touch. In the next game business started to pick up – Leachy broke and Crullers dobbed six straight. He was ever so close to getting an 8 Str8 at an official Convention function, but his last coloured ball was tucked away in a difficult spot. Arma, WALDO and then Leachy each played and missed and Crullers potted the last of the WALDO-Crullers coloured balls and then the eight with a maaaaagnificent cut shot.

Crullers thought better than to enforce a dacking on a couple of Founding Fathers, so instead they had their photos taken alongside the scene of their devastating 7/0 loss. Wait for it on the website.

The Leachy-Arma collective took out the next game and salvaged some face. Leachy set the pool table on fire with an Arma that went the length of the table. It prompted a massive cry of “Ohhh what an Arma! The Arma of the Century!” from the Big Arma himself. Arma slammed the black home and broke a four game winning streak from WALDO and Crullers (two against the other FBT members, two against some other unlucky punters who were ever so lucky to have stumbled across the FBT on the burst) and they were never the same after that. Arma and Leachy took out another game to level the ledger. In the fifth game, Crullers had a sitter on the black but ran the white in behind it to give Arma and Leachy a 3-2 lead which only half an hour earlier seemed impossible.

The Big Arma stepped up to the plate a couple of times to defend the honour of the FBT – first to challenge a gaysexual cabbie who wanted to get the footy off the tv and secondly against a bloke who wanted to take the table via singles competition. The first contest was a lay down misere – the win via knockout to the Big Arma. The second contest was more of a challenge, but the Arma – with a helping hand from Lady Luck – got the job done for the FBT and maintained their presence on the table.

WALDO and Crullers took out another game to again even the ledger – “How many lead changes have we had this quarter, Drew?” – which prompted a stinging rebuke from the self-appointed Captain of the other team.

“Leachy, any time you want to pot a ball, you just tell me!”

“Arma, any time you want to get fucked, you just tell me!”

While all this pool action was taking place, we still had time to view the footy action on the box. You boys in Melbourne don’t know what you miss out on by not getting the Saturday match of the day - Channel Seven “wheels” out the Commentary A-Team for these games, I tell you what. From our vantage point a thousand kilometres away, it looked like Schwabby (Peter, that is) had wheeled out the goal umpiring A-Team as well. First we saw the Saints get awarded a goal that was clearly punched on its way through and then the Lions got an evener upperer a few minutes later. Unbelievable stuff.

WALDO and Crullers then took on a couple of Kiwis with chips on their shoulders. (Another one for the book of tautologies?) The FBT had their chances, but Crullers fluffed a shot on the eight. I got that dreadful sinking feeling when a piece of Kiwi filth slotted three gimmies in a row to take the match. Leachy then disappeared for a few minutes and again we realised he was backing one out. (It’s a sad indictment on these Tour Diaries that Crullers is so short of material that he has to make mention twice of Banterers punching a log, squeezing a Malteser, strangling a darker, giving birth to a big brown bear…) Leachy’s return from the Men’s prompted more invective from the Big Arma and an equally curt reply –

“Wiped your arse Leachy?”

“With my hands Arma. Here…”

The magic Arma-Leachy pool playing partnership was clearly fraying at the edges – the final blow was delivered by a jeans and joggers-wearing Wayne Weidemann lookalike. When the WALDO-Crullers combo were knocked off the pool table in the next game by the Kiwis – who insisted on calling us “bro” – it meant the end of the FBT’s reign on the Bank Hotel’s pool table that afternoon. The game on the box was over, the sun had set on our afternoon beer drinking and Arma’s dogs were yapping away in nearby Stanmore waiting to be fed.

We hopped a cab over to Casa del Arma and wrestled with the dogs for a while. It was there that I realised I’d left the Bank without my secret Matty Nicks Medal weapon, the Swans footy. I rang up the Bank and thankfully Liz behind the bar rescued the pill for me (somewhat in the manner that the AMOL trophy was spared when Arma left it at the Royal at a previous non-Convention gathering).

We caught a cab back to the Bank, whereupon Arma entertained the cabbie with tales of his days as a Swans battler. “Yeah mate, I was a little too small to hold down a key position with the Swans and too slow to be a wingman. I played a few games in the AFL without much success but I was alright in the SFL…” After nearly asphyxiating on Arma’s BS, we got back to the Bank and headed out to their Thai restaurant for about the spiciest Thai meals I’ve ever had. Crullers had no sense of embarrassment at all when he went out to the bar and ordered a tall glass of milk to settle the stomach. Sure, the bartender had never had that sort of request before, but I’d never had a meal like that before.

After dinner we grabbed a cab back to the little Gee for the night’s footy. As our cabbie swung down Euston Road in Alexandria, Crullers set the challenge for the four of us Banterers to name every position on the “Monopoly” board. We had no trouble navigating our way around the board – Old Kent Road, Community Chest, Whitechapel Road…Free Parking, The Strand, Chance…Park Lane, Income Tax, Mayfair – but struggled to come up with the train stations. I suggested we defer to an independent adjudicator– my sister – whereupon Arma left the longest answering machine message ever at Crullers’ Olds’ household. And that was just the first one. After his mobile cut out when he was still rolling along, he called back again and left the remainder of the message. Later on in the night my sister rang back with the answers we were all dying to hear.

We got stuck in a trademark Sydney traffic snarl when still a fair way from the ground, so we bailed out of the cab and took the Shanks Pony the rest of the way. It was a fair hike just when we were all feeling our most slothful, but Arma entertained us with a sterling Rick Astley impersonation along the way to keep the troupe’s morale high. I commandeered a shopping trolley and pushed it down South Dowling Street, but it ended up being roadside junk after I was given the order by the Founding Fathers to ditch it.

As we neared the ground and took a shortcut through an unmanned parking lot, Arma performed his obligatory act of community service for the night and waved the traffic through in the unsuspecting Leachy’s direction. “That’s the way…through you go…just follow the next attendant there…”

Leachy didn’t know where the cars went next, so he did the Harry Holt and let the drivers figure it out for themselves.

When we finally arrived ten minutes into the first quarter, the Kangaroos were well on their way to recording the comfortable victory that the entire footy world had tipped. The match was a fizzer and deserves no comment, except to say that the Duck turned it on. The FBT Reserve had been occupied by a bunch of Jabronis who made an otherwise dull game of footy bloody annoying as well. With a couple of Mazdas on display in front of the O’Reilly Stand, I decided to try and liven up proceedings by hopping into the cars and hooting their horns whenever a goal was scored. Unfortunately, nothing doing. Those cars were locked and with the world renowned security features of Japanese cars I wasn’t going to waste my time trying to break in. After standing on the cars’ stage for a few minutes, finally a useless ground attendant (another one for the book of tautologies) told me to G&GF. Not even the new FBT business cards were authority enough for him.

We headed back to the social club for the post-match function with a view to doing some more skinning work. As everyone showed their Kangaroos memberships cards at the door, I dipped the head, pointed to the cap and said “Footy Banter Team, mate”. The attendant cried “Hey?” as I breezed past him and into the glittering social function. Arma was ruthless on the social club host for the night, an honest battler by the name of Steve Allen. (No, not the deceased US TV show host. I did confirm it with the bloke.) Obviously this bloke needs to come prepared for hecklers next time, as he was found sorely wanting in the snappy comebacks department even though the challenges from the floor (all courtesy of Arma) were not that impressive. “Geeee, this is going down a treat mate…Beautiful work…The crowd’s loving every minute of this…Gee that segment worked well…This is a ratings winner…”

The best this bloke could come back with was a sheepish “Thanks mate”. To his credit, he did tackle the Arma after official proceedings had finished and asked for Arma’s thoughts on what could be done to improve the function. Second big mistake. Arma proceeded to demonstrate his “marketing expertise” and point out everything the Kangaroos were doing wrong and how the Big Arma would do it right. As if this bloke hadn’t suffered enough during the night. The opportunities for skinning were few and far between, but when Dennis Pagan came nearby pressing the flesh and kissing babies, Crullers swooped. “G’day Dennis, can I take your photo please?”

“No problem.”

“Thanks – look, if you wouldn’t mind just putting this cap on…”

“No mate, no caps…”

“Well, if you wouldn’t mind just holding it, you see…”

“Look mate, you can take my photo, but I’m not putting the cap on.”

It was a stern rebuke in full view of the FBT and one that left Crullers personally shattered. It’s not the first time I’ve had a skinning knocked back at the SCG and with my skinning confidence at an all time low – my last successful skin was Normie Dare, hardly what you’d call a “trophy skin” – I’m starting to doubt whether I’ll be able to top the best of the skins that have been taken to date.

And now we get to the point of the Tour Diaries that is very painful for Crullers to write. I don’t want to rehash these humiliating memories, but in order to set the record straight and clarify once and for all that I did not – REPEAT, DID NOT – do any Matty Nicks work on the night, here is “The Whole Story”…

One of our foursome – I think it may have been WALDO – got talking to this chick who was by herself at the function. She was a North supporter in a #31 jumper who had travelled up from Melbourne for the game. WALDO thought this young lass would’ve been a great match for the absent Boydy, so he started putting in a few good words on Boydy’s behalf. Boydy, thank your lucky stars you weren’t there that night, because she was not a pretty sight.

Out of courtesy and having nothing better to do while Arma was babbling on with his grand marketing ideas, I had a few polite words to this young “lady”. In the course of our unremarkable conversation, I happened to find out that she was staying with a friend in the Chez Crullers apartment complex in Redfern. I think it was then that she started taking a fancy to Crullers that was in no way –REPEAT, NO WAY – reciprocated. After being thoroughly bored by her, I tried to shake the tag, but she was like a dog to a bone…

Oh, no, people!

When Arma came by I thought hopefully I could give him the hospital handpass and for a minute it looked like it might work. When she started paying a bit more attention to Arma’s Khyber Pass than is usual, I thought I was safe. But no, she was only interested from a scientific point of view in that it appeared that Arma had no arse. She then proceeded to do a hands on “arse test” on any Banterer within striking distance…A little too much attention for my liking! Eventually the Kangaroos social function wound down, so we headed off to a nearby pub, The Palace. On the way we engaged in some footy drills with a very flat mini Swans footy and a witches hat that the Big Arma had appropriated. Crullers went in a little too vigorously with a Danny Del Rey-esque nudge with that big bottom of his on a chick in the carpark who had designs on his pill. Arma showed brilliant skills with the witches hat in the near dark, taking a couple of spectacular “grabs” of the ball in the end of the hat.

His Bruce McAvaney commentary was speeeeeeecial. As we walked along the footpath outside the ground, Arma slewed one off the side of the boot and the Swans mini footy went sailing through the narrowest of gaps on a construction site fence. It was impossible to retrieve, so the FBT once again said goodbye to a mini footy thanks to the Big Arma.

Unfortunately, “Corey” followed us to our next watering hole and did further research on the “arse test”. While Arma and I were trying to keep Corey at bay, Leachy and WALDO were having their own battles with some “street filth” who had the audacity to interrupt WALDO and Leachy’s beer drinking to scavenge some loose change from the punters. WALDO was not backward in letting this downtrodden old lady – or the whole pub for that matter – know his opinion of her!

Leachy meanwhile, taking his beer drinking a little too seriously for some observers, started engaging in a series of bizarre stretching routines. He’d wrap the arms above the head and stretch his sides, cross his legs and (try to) touch his toes, and stretch the neck all over. Some people thought he was off his rocker, as if he was warming up for a kick of the Sherrin on the Little Gee at midnight. Others thought he might have fancied his chances and wanted to be nice and limber lest he come down with a case of shaggers’ back / neck / AC joint.

When The Palace shut up shop, Crullers demanded to see management to order beers after hours, but again there was nothing doing.

We hopped on our bikes down the road to a place which Arma assured us wouldn’t be a drag, The Taxi Club. Once again, Corey followed.

As Arma led us in the door, we knew we’d been well and truly stitched up.

Leachy proceeded to give us a sample of what Honest Bob Leach would say in these circumstances:

“Jesus!”

“Christ!”

“Have a look at him, would ya!”

The place was full of six foot four “chicks” whose chests had been surgically enhanced until they were just about toppling over. Not wanting to become the victim of a media beat-up, Leachy cunningly signed in under the clever alias of “Terry Twat-tounger”. If only I’d been so smart. At least I had the foresight to put down my folks’ Melbourne address as my abode. Now the Olds will be getting regular mailouts from the Taxi Club advising them of the latest goings on at Sydney’s hottest nightspot.

But the FBT took these extremely alien surroundings in their stride, hit the dancefloor with gusto and were the pick of the groovers and shakers out there. Unfortunately, young Corey got a little too close to Crullers for Crullers’ comfort on the dancefloor. When Crullers tried to shake the tag, he just about had his little finger broken.

Big Arma jumped up onto the podium and went the hip and shoulder on a chick with the physique of a centre half back (ignoring the massive hooters) and soon Crullers joined him up there to shake the moneymaker. At last some welcome respite from Corey’s unwelcome advances.

After the FBT’s dancefloor show, it was time for some drag queen to sing and dance through some crappy disco number – a load of shit if you ask Crullers, but the other non-FBT punters were lapping it up. After the song and dance routine, she/he/it grabbed a microphone for some spoken word entertainment. As the crowd ruckus was dying down, Arma yelled out from the back of the room “Show us your axe wound!” In a superb piece of timing, the background crowd noise had died down completely as Arma was yelling out at the top of his voice.

“Carlotta” didn’t quite hear what was said and asked “What? Who said that?”, looking over in Leachy’s direction. Arma very sheepishly (that’s one for the FBT book of firsts) buried his head in his hands and escaped a rap!

WALDO later mended some fences with Carlotta on behalf of the FBT and asked Carlotta to be skinned. I’m not sure whether this anonymous drag queen from a little known trannie club would qualify as a celebrity skin, but in any event it was a fair effort from WALDO to reach up and get the FBT cap onto this 9 foot behemoth’s coiffure.

All this camp crusading was too much for the FBT. It had been a long day, so we decided to call it quits. Corey was back to have another go at Crullers so I frantically tried to hatch an escape plan. The FBT + 1 sauntered down outside and Arma and WALDO got into a cab to do God-knows-what back at Casa del Arma. I dare not think about it – from what I saw on the dancefloor, my guess is that there would’ve been some bumpin’ and grindin’ goin’ on when they got back to the Casa.

Leachy wandered off to the kebab shop down the road, leaving – you guessed it – Crullers stuck with a scragger who was even more determined and butt ugly than Libba himself. A big rap indeed, but that’s the truth. I rushed off to the kebab shop, but still she followed. I told her I was gay and that didn’t wash. I told her I was married and she didn’t care. All I could do was what any real man could do – I handed her my half-eaten kebab (God it was disgusting), did a Harry Holt around the corner and flagged the first cab I saw.

I drove off into the dead of night having finally gotten rid of that menace.

And so ends another Tour Diary. Or so I thought. Tucked up in bed getting some much needed shut-eye, I was woken at 4am with the Crullers intercom being buzzed. I’d made the mistake earlier on of telling Corey the number of the unit I lived in. Cursing my big-mouthed stupidity, I buried my head under my pillows, sighed with relief that Chez Crullers has security measures that keep even the most desperate Cuzzes out and awarded myself negative three Matty Nicks votes.