Tempusfugit
Draftee
- Jan 7, 2018
- 15
- 20
- AFL Club
- Melbourne
I am a fugitive from Demonland. I am a fugitive from self-righteous censorious self indulgent petty minded site owners who make the rules to suit their whims and fancies and political proclivities. Long live freedom of speech. Demonland is full of racist hate-filled warmongering right wing lunatics. It is a site where you can write and post any diatribe about Muslims and it is tolerated. That's okay if you believe in freedom of speech. If on the other hand you engage in an argument with racist posters you are held to the highest standards of propriety. As was pointed out to me by another contributor to their site, they are the owners, they can make the rules. There are countries in the world who abide by these principles, none of them with a very good human rights record.
I've played the game, have been a Demon supporter since watching the 1958 Grand Final at my grandmother's house and have remained steadfast and loyal.
I can name most players who have played since then and though I have very little patience with highly paid professionals who keep passing the ball to opposition players with pinpoint accuracy, I love the lads who have bled and sweated for the Demons. Unlike many Demon supporters, I don't believe one is 'owed' success simply because one follows a team. It is a roller coaster ride, it can be thrilling, it can be grim. The 2000 Grand Final, like the 1998, was grim. The Demons under post Bailey regimes until Roos was imported were a grim and sorry side. That's life, you take the good with the bad, it's like marriage. Except, divorcing oneself from one's team is like trying to rip your heart out whereas a divorce from a partner who is cheating on you or who keeps overcooking the asparagus can be a life enhancing release from a self created prison, which is, after all, the definition of marriage anyway. For the record, I love my wife, we have been together since the 1989 Grand Final when, despite every fibre in my corpus, I actually arose from my couch to pay homage to one of the filthiest thugs that has ever played Footy, Dermott Brereton. The man could dish, the man could take. A warrior. Now I have huge and fundamental issues with the notion of warriors, I very much prefer to deal with the notion of grace and agility and pure skill a la Flower, Greig and Garry Wilson, but when Dermott got up after spitting blood, after copping what he had been dishing out for aeons, and kicked a goal I recognised a man who despite himself was capable of an act of noble self sacrifice.
I have nothing more to say today, other than that I am glad to not be under the scrutiny of a mental midget who acts as the chief censor on the Demonland site.
Amen and good night to youse all.
I've played the game, have been a Demon supporter since watching the 1958 Grand Final at my grandmother's house and have remained steadfast and loyal.
I can name most players who have played since then and though I have very little patience with highly paid professionals who keep passing the ball to opposition players with pinpoint accuracy, I love the lads who have bled and sweated for the Demons. Unlike many Demon supporters, I don't believe one is 'owed' success simply because one follows a team. It is a roller coaster ride, it can be thrilling, it can be grim. The 2000 Grand Final, like the 1998, was grim. The Demons under post Bailey regimes until Roos was imported were a grim and sorry side. That's life, you take the good with the bad, it's like marriage. Except, divorcing oneself from one's team is like trying to rip your heart out whereas a divorce from a partner who is cheating on you or who keeps overcooking the asparagus can be a life enhancing release from a self created prison, which is, after all, the definition of marriage anyway. For the record, I love my wife, we have been together since the 1989 Grand Final when, despite every fibre in my corpus, I actually arose from my couch to pay homage to one of the filthiest thugs that has ever played Footy, Dermott Brereton. The man could dish, the man could take. A warrior. Now I have huge and fundamental issues with the notion of warriors, I very much prefer to deal with the notion of grace and agility and pure skill a la Flower, Greig and Garry Wilson, but when Dermott got up after spitting blood, after copping what he had been dishing out for aeons, and kicked a goal I recognised a man who despite himself was capable of an act of noble self sacrifice.
I have nothing more to say today, other than that I am glad to not be under the scrutiny of a mental midget who acts as the chief censor on the Demonland site.
Amen and good night to youse all.
