The Spew Round 16: Pistols at Dawn and Scooby-Doo endings

Previously
Round 15
Round 14

It's multicultural round and Port play host to Hawthorn at Adelaide Oval on Thursday nacht. We are treated to fireworks, drums, Chinese dragons and as an opening salvo, Alistair Clarkson brandishes a tyre iron. Yes it's the road raging homunculus, Alistair 'the Irascible' Clarkson, versus the king of the dour hour, Ken 'Mr Catatonic' Hinkley Esq.

Clarkson's gauntlet throwing during the week clearly crossed the luminous desk of the umpiring department – we know this because the first three kicks of the game all come as the result of free kicks. At this pace the umpire's going to be paying frees for disagreeable humours. But Port are as awake to Clarkson's feisty pre-game rebukes as the umpires, hence three Port players decide to beat up Hodge and see if they can draw out any Hawthorn waifs to defend him. Alas it's a roguish trick to draw in knaves, a classic '3 ruffians to 1 cad' play.

Dixon is running around like a loose carriage, all spilly and reckless. At one point he attempts a baulk then says to himself, I'm Charlie Dixon, to the devil with this baulking business and pushes Brand over. Emboldened by this epiphany he soon throws Gibson off him like he's the Count of Monte Cristo peeling off a winter frockcoat.

Ceglar similarly flatters himself and attempts to roughhouse with Trengove but his bump only succeeds in nudging his quarry a metre closer to goal. Ebert clonks his noggin on the deck after a spectacular leap and goes to see nursey. Port dominate the quarter and lead 21 to 19.

Hodge has so much bandage on his forearm I wonder if he's concealing a monkey wrench like that exemplar of manly sports, Brutus the Barber Beefcake.

The game is certainly a brutal affair and Gunston gives Hartlett a glancing atomic elbow drop to the back of the cranium and soon Hartlett is wobbling around like a drunken sailor. Hawthorn may be reedy but they have pointy elbows. Umpire Pettifogger wants in on the action and makes Birchall put a ball back in the bag behind goals and extract another one. What an odd fellow. The half ends 34:40 Hawthorn's way.

In the third quartile, Hodge decides to balance himself with a knee into Boak's intestines and in an unrelated move Boak decides to start covering the ground like a turtle as some pink hued asses encourage him in his endeavours.

In short order Austin receives some savage blow and wobbles his way to the bench. Watching with my associate it's agreed that Westhoff looks very much like he was once conjoined with Dixon but – being the weaker twin – was cleaved away. Speaking of which it is like an abattoir out there and Hawthorn are doing all the slicing as the quarter ends 76:46.

It's a goal festival in the last quarter but the exertions are of no consequence for Hinkley. Kayne Mitchell, like a machine in a Taylorist production line, appears only to be there to handball to good players of which there are few. Hinkley grips his coconut and looks ready to launch it down an alley.

For a game which promises high-dudgeon, the Sydney/Geelong Friday night clash at Kardinia Park starts in the register of comedy. Carey sounds like he's smoked a carton of Laramies and to make it less audible fireworks explode in the near distance. I expect Leslie Nielsen to make a cameo.

Soon after the game starts Captain Jack scores the opening goal and in a touching gesture to his paramour, points to his crotch. Buoyed by Jack's example Sydney score two more unanswered goals. Bartel now looks like he's wearing a heavy bee beard which I feel can't help his mobility but then I see Mitchell brought low in a tackle by Menzel and I redefine what slow can be. Neatly, the game provides another clarifying contrast the other way as Hawkins chases after Rampe. It looks like a Bulgarian hammer thrower from 1974 chasing an intergalactic 100 metre sprint champion. Cats claw back but Sydney win the quarter.

I can't decide if Naismith looks like a young BFG—Bob Fucking Geldof—but he's actually not unpleasant to witness. The Cats launch a massive attack but Sydney rope-a-dope and soon the Cats are punched out. Motlop signals the ordinariness that will soon befall Geelong when his kick fades before goal. It looks more Matlock than Motlop with droopy results.

Sydney have plenty in the tank and Rohan performs his Trademark sideways Superman mark.

In defence Rampe is launching more dazzling forays into space than Evel Knievel's ramp. Just before half-time Richard's with his nerf hat looks madder than Christopher Walken in The Deer Hunter. Sydney enter halftime 15 points up.

In the third quarter Mills brings down Hawkins with 300 metres of X-Wing tripwire and Jack goals. Someone needed to call the Guinness Book of Records because the Geelong crowd were going for most apoplectic crowd in the cosmos. When Richards-Walken kicked a goal it was as ominous as a Macbeth witch. Duncan tries to remove Parker's mask in a Scooby Doo ending type way but alas it's his face.

Parker goals and there's panic in the streets of Sleepy Hollow as the scoreline reads 73:39 and soon the final term beckons.

Before the final bounce Jude Bolton gives us a boundary ride that's more like a charisma tsunami. There's some back and forth goals while in the ruck battle between Smith and Naismith, the Nai's have it. In the lucky-dip disposal of Jones there is finally some payoff and when Mills makes a timely fist intercept, it may has well been to the collective genitals of Geelong. It's a 98:60 win which didn't surprise this columnist.

Follow David on Twitter