Failure in the Deep South: Big Losses, Mick Molloy and Loud Jeers from Tigerland
It was a weekend that, looking over it on Thursday, had all the potential for greatness. Massive winnings. Memorable moments. Wild Times. A weekend for men. Melbourne was my oyster and when Old Punt delves into an oyster, he sucks that puppy dry.
Let the good times roll on.
Wrong.
After an evening with the beloved owners of Punting Ace, Matt and Jess, that involved early-hour Vodka consumption, bottles of local red and much drunken jabbering until the wee wee hours, all I wanted was sleep. Sleep and absolute silence.
An airport does not provide for either. I was rudely awoken by a beeping taxi cab and was immediately thrown into the throes of a vile hangover that seemed most intent on causing me great pain. Grabbing the biggest bag I could find, I grabbed an armful of clothing, my bull-horn cup, my Richmond scarf and my two favourite cigarette holders and pounded them all in. Packing like a man.
Two minutes later, I was being hauled off in a Big Yellow Taxi with three all-too-happy fellow travellers and a loud mouthed driver who wouldn’t turn the radio down. The last thing you want at eight on a Saturday morning, trying not to throw up or think, is some goddamn Matchbox Twenty song blaring at one billion decibels through sixty three different speakers with the bass cranked and the thumping desperate. Angry, the last thing I needed was to be told by this joker in a cab was that he owned a horse- a horse whom I had bet heavily less than 24 hours before- and he was “a little disappointed” at how it went. “Shoot the prick” was all I could yell. The cab came to a screeching halt and we were ordered out.
It probably wasn’t the most sensible piece of social commentary I’ve ever engaged in, but it needed to be said. Alas…
It wasn’t far from the airport, but it wasn’t as close as I needed and the walk felt like The Long March. And my bitterness at life was hardly alleviated when I slid through the airport doors. Mumbling and ranting, I eventually slid by airport security and the fools that sit at the check-in desks who had screwed up my ticket. The bar was closed. No hair of the dog. I had to suffer alone.
Why the hell has nobody come up with a hangover cure. We can build bridges and make fax machines and cure goddamn polio, but nobody can give me a remedy-in-a-bottle, just-swallow-two-with-water cure. Jesus, who is working on this? Is there anybody? Someone in the business of curing better come up with something damned quick because in these tense times, the last thing the world needs is Captain Punt on a plane with a hangover. Make no mistake about that.
The plane trip was god-awful. Seventy minutes of trying not to throw up and mumbling to the Asian woman next to me to shut the hell up.
The weekend hardly picked up when I landed in the bowels of Essendon and spent ninety minutes trying to locate my bag. It was supposed to be Melbourne but it may as well have been Sao Paulo, such was the madness and disorganization and blatant attempts at robbery.
After sorting out all that unpleasantness, it was off to the MCG to see the mighty Richmond Tigers put up an inept and heartless performance against the Saints, losing by 103 points with the man known as the G-Train kicking ten goals. Words like strong and bold are often sung at Tigerland but they weren’t making their presence all that well known last Saturday.
As the result became apparent and the alcohol had set in, there was a substantial amount of finger pointing and self loathing going on. Die hard Tigers, adorned in the yellow and the black, yelled about heart and the will to win, about fundamentals and the need for Ray Hall to wear a different strip next year. It was heartening to see that passion, to be part of that fervour. But seeing your team get hammered, outplayed in every facet, you can’t help but feel some level of despair. The Drums of Death just kept on pounding. The weekend was slowly sliding down the whirlpool…
About four hours later, deep in the labyrinth of the Crown, word came down the line that the Raiders had been smoked by South Sydney and that Manly had been soundly beaten by those pigslappers from Parramatta. I had bet heavily on both the Raiders and Manly. I had just been beaten with an ace high flush by some dude who rivered the straight. Straight flush that is. I was being beaten like an obese dog that just refuses to move. My eyes were filling with claret and my brain kicked to mush. Wasted on Vodka, I was near mental breakdown. I had been walloped.
I had no choice. I stayed and drank all night. Vodka. Whiskey. Bourbon. Sambucca. Tequila. And then I did what no self-respecting gambler should ever do. I called my bookmaker and chased.
I refused to let sleeping dogs lie and the past remain just that. I tripled my bet on Footscray, scooted off for a few hours sleep and then sidled off to the MCG Members stand to catch the action. I was hoarse from abuse. And probably an over-indulgence alcohol. But mainly abuse. Chris Grant heard my rants and I’m sure that punk Griffen did as well. But it was to no avail. The Dees bolted in and I was left broke.
Destitute and defeated in the great sporting capital of Australia. It had been one of those nasty weekends that, as a gambler, you dread and as a drinker, you recount for many years. I had failed. With all flights back to Canberra booked, I had no choice but to spend another night in the city that had left me as bleary and beaten as a two decade whore. Only Atlantic City has dealt me a bigger kick to the balls.
When all was lost and their was nothing left to do but hit the public houses of Richmond and drink away the gambling worries, the God’s smiled just a little bit.
Being a little on the rotund and unkempt side, as those with a taste for whiskey and fun times tend to be, I have been mistaken for Australian comedy legend Mick Molloy many times. I have signed autographs, posed for photos, been purchased drinks. I’ve even kissed a girl when mistaken for the ever-so-handsome Michael, a young lass who will forever tell the tale of pashing Mick Molloy. Ho ho. It, at times, has reached such ridiculous levels that it needs to be explained to those hassling me that I am just out for a drink with some mates and don’t want to be disturbed. The irritation of celebrity, if you will.
Well, sucking back the house red at the London Tavern, who should I see holding court at the front bar but Mick Molloy. Much to the mirth of many in attendance, the Molloy twins were re-united. Or so it seemed.
So with a smile and a cigarette, I explained days gone by and the weekend to Mick. He chuckled and bought a round.
Never chase, he said. Women, bets or leopards.
Wise words.