The souva from the night before obviously did the job in soaking up the grog that had been imbibed, because for the first Saturday morning in yonks Crullers woke up without a massive hangover. But it had the nasty side-effect of setting off a fire of London 1666 / San Francisco 1906 proportions in the Crullers belly which required a big glass of Pa Crullers’ Selza Saline to douse.

Made my way to Barassi’s Mountain View Hotel and kicked back a very leisurely ale with the boys to get rid of that furry feeling from the gob. The crew who miraculously managed to butter up from the previous night was Arma, Boydy, Leachy, alFie, Crullers, Saint, WALDO and Crooksy, although the latter’s job was slightly easier in that he didn’t have to endure the late night drinking shenanigans. All Crooksy had to endure the night before was the lamentations of a couple of very disappointed Junior Crooksys who saw their team’s winning streak come to an end – but that was “nothing that six hot jam donuts couldn’t fix”. Mopsy also joined the crew after being consigned to domestic duties on the opening night of the Convention.

A rumbling and grumbling Arma spent the Mountain View session describing his tale of woe from the night before at the hands of a dodgy vegetarian souvlaki vendor. Unlike Crullers’ and Leachy’s souvlaki experience, Arma’s was not pleasant – the “17.5 kilograms of parsley” wrapped in pita bread that was served up to Arma certainly didn’t result in Arma handing out any “Good Food Guide” votes to Stavros of Brunswick Street. It may have been due to the aforementioned 17.5 kgs of parsley, but Arma was the first Banterer to go B.O.O. for the day at precisely 12:55pm Eastern. (That’s 12:25 central time, 10:55am in the west – check your local guides.)

After a few leisurely brews at Barassi’s Mountain View, the FBT hopped on a tram – remarkable, but true – and headed back to Collo-nial. Gotta say the tram trip to Collo-nial from Bridge Road worked a treat but as Ivan from Ivanhoe pointed out on the Coodabeens that morning, “there’s only one problem with Public Transport, Tony – the public”. There were some not quite right Adelaide Crows fans on our tram, to be sure.

With half of the FBT in the middle of the tram and the other half down one end, WALDO pounced on the opportunity to show just how much useless footy trivia the FBT knows.

“Leachy – was there a game played at the Gabba before the Bears moved there?”

“Yeahhhhh – I think it was Essendon v Hawthorn in about 1982.”

“And who won?”

“Errr, Hawthorn I think.”

“And who got four weeks in that game?”

“Errrr, Dipper?”

“Correct weight.”

I think it’s fair to say that the rest of the punters on the tram were duly impressed.

Crullers was pleasantly surprised on arriving at Collo-nial that the Crullers MCC membership gave free admission to the Swans – Tigers match, hence no need for a patented “switcheroo”…not yet, anyway.

The match between the Chardonnay Sippers and the Tiger Street Filth was going to be a slobberknocker, with both teams on the precipice of finals glory or end-of-season oblivion. And plenty of Banterers had a vested interest in the outcome of the game – Saint and WALDO the Tiger faithful, Arma the Swans die-hard and Crullers and Leachy the other Sydney residents who wouldn’t have minded seeing their home-town team do well.

Pre-match, the “voice of Collo-nial” conducted an interview with a young Tiger cub on the big screen.

“And do you think the Tigers will make the finals?”

“No.”

This got the Saint’s blood boiling – “get him off”, he screamed to the delight of the Tiger trash around the FBT Reserve.

The Swans skipped away to a slight lead early on and the Tiger Street Filth in the crowd quickly turned on their own players and the umpires (in that order, although their hatred for the men in white soon far outstripped their hatred for their team). There were about four pieces of TSF in and around the FBT in particular who had a remarkably one-eyed slant on the umpiring standards, even by Tigers supporters’ standards. Leachy and Crullers were wagering amongst themselves as to what would be the next cry of anguish from a TSF supporter, when sure enough as if on cue came the call from behind them of “how much did they pay you for that one?”

The Saint did the right thing early on and snaffled plenty of pies to go around. Leachy was of a like mind and did the same thing – with the result that Leachy walked back to his seat with eight pies while every Banterer was happily chowing down. The human garbage disposal units of the FBT, Mopsy and Crullers, did their best to polish off Leachy’s excess pies, but in the end a couple of flattened Four’n’Twenties had to be left for the seagulls.

The game had everything – except skill – and gave the punters value for money. Swans supporters came away with a win, Tigers fans had two hours of fun bagging the umpires and their players. From a personal point of view, Yours Crully was delighted once again to marvel at the tenacity, courage, silky skills, commitment, endeavour, passion for the jumper, zeal, enterprise, intrepidity, G&D and out-and-out class of Robert Ah Mat. The bloke is a marvel. His 1.3 for the day sealed the match for the Swans – he was “the factor”. The way he could spray his set shots from 40m out either side of the big splinters was just remarkable.

And special mention should be made to Troy Luff, who all day managed to impress the FBT with his Keystone Cops antics. His effort in the dying stages of the game to run all around a Mark Chaffey Hail Mary from outside 50 and watch the ball dribble through for a goal was Glenn “Galaxy” Coleman-esque in its ineptitude.

The venture out of Collo-nial was an experience – a logjam of punters making their way down the stairs and over the one and only bridge in and out of the much maligned stadium. Good luck getting out in the event of an emergency!

Our next challenge was to make our way via public transport (for the second time in the one day!) to the Bush Inn, WALDO’s anointed venue for the big night. Boydy correctly identified the Frankston-Dandenong line as the one to be on, which got the nine Banterers to Hawksburn in style. There were two chicks on the train in particular who were more than just a bit of alright. Being the closest Banterer to these bits of alright, Crullers was naturally singled out by the rest of the FBT to go up and do some Nicks Medal work.

Given the FBT’s proven track record of drawing attention to Crullers (e.g. the pyjama-wearing incident at the Sipperdome earlier in the season), it was a very wary Crullers who respectfully declined the opportunity to be publicly humiliated on a packed train. Arma’s description of the “giant rippling Brontosaurus hide” worn by one of the bits of alright was a treat.

Instead Crullers hung around the FBT’s Standing Room Reserve on the train carriage and enjoyed the by-play between the FBT and a Richmond supporter with his two young boys, one of whom proved to be a feisty aspiring junior Banterer when challenging the Big Arma. Our mate on the train agreed whole-heartedly with the FBT’s assessment that “the Tigers are the best team out of the eight”.

We got off at Hawksburn and engaged in a bit of kick to kick with the little red footy on the walk to the Bush Inn. As WALDO had previously advised, the Bush Inn was perfect for an FBT Convention – short-term money market facilities, pool tables, grub and grog. In lieu of the fact that WALDO’s special guests had either failed to show up or had been jilted by the FBT, Brownlow Medallist Len Thompson popped his head into the pub to give the Convention a bit more credibility. (Not that it really needed it, but thanks anyway, Len.)

During the night, the Big Arma’s mate the Birdman did the duties with the camera – check out the shots on the website – taking a couple of delightful front and back shots of the FBT in their latest apparel. Leachy provided the line of the Convention when he wondered “why is that we all smile even when we’ve got our backs to the camera?”

And so with plenty of footy and beers already under the belt, we moved on to what for mine – win, lose or 7/0 dacking – is the highlight of every Convention, the FBT Pool Championship and the battle for the acronym of UPCFBT.

First up, some logistical issues to hurdle. The non-attendance of several Banterers left the FBT with a very unwieldy number of entrants to the CVII Pool Championship – 10. The FBT Brains Trust, chaired by Dr Boydy, devised a scheme to eliminate two players from the draw that was so cunning that it was bound to fail… Five pre-qualifying games would be played and the two worst losers would be eliminated. Mopsy took on the Saint first of all and cleaned house, winning by 4 balls. Then 4 more games were played with each and every game going down to the black ball. The final pre-qualifying game was held up interminably by Krakatoa, who constantly advised us that he would “be there in 20 minutes boys”.

While waiting for Krakatoa, an ad hoc doubles competition was started up but that idea slowly fizzled as every pairing realised that there wasn’t much glory in being known as the Woodies of the FBT. The four losers from pre-qualifying – Arma, Boydy, Leachy and Krakatoa – played off to see who would be the worst of the losers. At one point it was suggested that all four should play in a 30-ball Royal Rumble, but cooler heads prevailed and it went down to two standard matches. Leachy was the unlucky loser who didn’t make it to the main event.

With the preliminaries and administrative nightmares out of the way, the battle heated up for the gold. Arma took on Boydy in the first round – Arma could consider himself a very lucky loser, having lost both of his preliminary bouts, including one to Boydy. But Arma stood up to be counted when it counted most and knocked Boydy out of the championship in the first round of real competition.

Krakatoa took on alFie, who in tandem with Arma the previous night had proven himself a far better pool player than his earlier claim of having rarely touched a cue stick might suggest. alFie carried on his brilliant form from the previous night and accounted for Krakatoa in a match that had all the spite of one of those Essendon – Hawthorn Grand Finals from the 1980s where you knew there was some serious biffo just around the corner. Thankfully the lads kept their competitive urges in check on this night and the match didn’t degenerate into fisticuffs.

WALDO then took on his FBT protégé, Mopsy, the youngster having shown plenty of flash in his pre-qualifying elimination of the Saint. But WALDO’s wiser head prevailed in the heat of battle, leaving Mopsy’s tally of FBT Pool Championship wins at a St Kilda-esque 1.

In the final first round match, reigning champ Crullers took on Convention debutant Crooksy, who had obviously been reading Sheedy The Genius’ musings on talking yourself out of favouritism when he said “I’ve never touched a pool stick in my life”. Crooksy pushed Crullers to the limit and was unlucky to go down on the black.

In the semis, Arma was pitted against arch rival Crullers, while WALDO and alFie were to lock horns. The semis shaped as a promoter’s dream. Arma, who for so long has talked the talked about his own pool playing ability and yet was barely able to do more than crawl the walk as far as results in FBT Pool Championships, against the cool, calculating, spasmodically brilliant Crullers. WALDO, who for so long has coveted FBT gold and come up frustratingly short on many occasions, against alFie, who quietly went about his business without the huff and bluster of his FBT colleagues.

In the first semi, Crullers applied the ESP (early scoreboard pressure) blowtorch to the belly of Arma, but Arma fought back with resilience. There were plenty of Arma Acolytes, such as the Bird and the Rude, in attendance giving Ion Tiriac-esque advice from the sidelines. Crullers’ brother, Mick Foley, was there for moral support and also to play the odd mind-game with the potentially fragile Arma psyche. The match was getting close when Crullers pulled out a very streaky patented Arma shot to fine-cut a ball into the cushion and double it into the end hole. “You pulled that one out of your arse, didn’t you Crullers?”, Arma intoned.

“Yep.”

Crullers got onto the black with two Arma balls left on the table and sunk this via a triple Arma into the middle pocket. “You arsed that one too, didn’t you?”

“Yep.”

And contrary to Krakatoa’s claim, no, we won’t see two pages written about this semi-final in the Tour Diaries. I’ll save that for the Grand Final.

WALDO and alFie then went head to head to determine the other Grand Final berth. It was a ding-dong struggle, with both players playing cautiously to gain that coveted grand final berth. In the end, alFie prevailed, the debutant making it to the Grand Final in his very first Convention.

The Final was an interesting match-up – reigning champion Crullers against debutant alFie. Ordinarily the pressure would all be on the favourite in circumstances like this, but Crullers wasn’t feeling it too acutely thanks to the calming effects of several dozen of the Very Best over the preceding 24 hours. alFie was handling the pressure in a manner befitting a finalist in the FBT Pool Championship, doing a sterling impersonation of a cucumber.

Dr Boydy dispensed with FBT Pool Championship tradition and stipulated that this would be a best-of-one Grand Final, a move that stunned the stunned Banterers watching from the sidelines.

The match was a gripping struggle with neither player clearly gaining the ascendancy – no quarter asked, none given from either side. In the end, Crullers prevailed by two balls but alFie had given a magnificent account of himself, one that suggested he will be a force to be reckoned with at future Conventions.

With the pool comp out of the way, it was then time for the Nicks Medal escapades to begin in earnest. We headed to Frostbites on Chapel Street, scene of many a Nicks Medal crash’n’burn, while some of the more experienced Banterers recalled Boydy’s Bare Arse effort on Chapel Street as we transvestited our way down the thoroughfare that Boydy made famous.

Sadly, there was not a Nicks Medal effort by any Banterer, so the Convention was very quiet in that regard. Not so quiet was the Royal Doulton in the upstairs facilities at Frostbites, which was severely damaged by WALDO, Crullers and Mopsy, who all upheld that great Convention tradition and went B.O.O.

After a couple of quiet ones at Frostbites we kept walking down Chapel Street and popped into the Prince Alfred. Who should be there but WALDO’s previously much-maligned A. Kellaway? After skinning the previously MM (complete with WALDO’s #39 jersey), who should we see but the giant rippling Brontosaurus hide? Again, no Nicks Medal efforts by any in the FBT. Given that Crullers is back on Cleo’s most eligible bachelors list again after a couple of years under the thumb, I’m personally disappointed at my own efforts in this regard. There really are no excuses for Yours Crully any more.

The last of the stayers – Arma, Boydy, Leachy, Crullers, WALDO and Mopsy – then made their way down the road. We stopped off at an absolute dive whose only redeeming feature was that they were playing KISS’ “I was made for lovin’ you” and then Van Halen’s “Jump” on the juke box. After inspecting the facilities and concluding that they were decidedly B.O.O.-unfriendly, we moved on to Wayne Campbell’s Swan Hotel. A few more quiet ones and then it was off to bed at about 3am. Before that though, Crullers had to stop of at Lambs again for more souvlaki magic. Hit the spot just perfectly.

Day 3 - Sunday, 30 July 2000