8:00 am – wake up and enjoy the brief flutter of time before I remember the never-ending nightmare. Groan as I battle another rage-hangover after getting intoxicated on a late-night strength & conditioning rant bender. Also 12 pints.
9:00 am – silently seethe as I take in the day’s media articles trashing the team. That’s my job. These journo scumbags should focus on North. Tell my wife that, she smiles in that polite way that screams “stop talking to me”.
9:15 am – create another burner account on Twitter and challenge Kane Cornes to a fight. Have another crack at Jack Darling’s email addy. One day I’ll get the right combination and he’ll hear my thoughts.
10:30 am – game day so prepare by getting on the beers a bit early. Caught in a 2 ½ beer buzz I give myself permission to believe. Today is the day West Coast gets up. Upsets happen all the time.
11:30 am – while attempting to bond with my son I accidently call him Harley again. I see if he’s keen to put that headband on I bought him, alas, another refusal.
Midday – bounce down – as a symbolic ritual I polish a piece of actual silverware and then rub the ol’ pork silverware to Dom Sheed’s clutch goal on YouTube. Now purged, I am fully ready to endure the game.
First quarter – welcome to the arena of screams. I get overly excited every time a player touches it and trick myself into beliving it’s going to last forever. My wife thinks I’m penetrating the La-Z-Boy again. Assure her that was a one-off after 2018 (it wasn’t).
Second quarter – my mood sours somewhat but if absolutely everything goes right we can keep this to under 16 goals. That’s what I’ve become. That’s what I live for. A desperate creature slithering in the cave of sub-100 floggings.
Third quarter – throat sore, face red, I scuttle around my TV area like an irate crab. Not believing what I’m seeing despite seeing it every week. I decide to voice some opinions on social media.
Fourth quarter – I’d physically leave but I don’t have the energy. I sit slumped like I was in an elaborate Saw trap where I had to watch a VHS tape I found under my parent’s bed. I am numb now. The silence of the lambs.
2:30 pm – two bottles of wine and a lengthy argument on Big Footy has me back. I’m fired up and I have funnelled all my focus into my opinion that Simmo should be sacked. My 3 year old daughter’s wry smile proves she agrees.
4:30 pm – I catch up with a mate who has also popped a bluey v. We keep our spirits high talking about the promising youngsters before devising a plan to storm Mineral Resources Park on Monday and demand Simmo on a platter. It’s a little unhinged, I won’t lie.
6:30 pm – feel myself transitioning into a beast that I swore I’d never become. A bitter and twisted life form that now must feed on baiting Freo supporters into arguments about Flagmantle being pretenders. I have become a Docker myself, in many ways.
8:00 pm – explain to my family the importance of list management as I glance at my phone to see if I’ve got any bites to my Docker-baiting. Success. I wear him down with a lengthy and thorough history lesson.
8:15 – 10:30 pm – speaking of, I return to the man cave to treat myself to the 2006 Premiership Grand Final highlights on YouTube. I smash out a Benny C arm windmill and do some ligament damage. I am one of the boys now.
11:00 pm – contrary to what I said earlier today. I send Simmo a goodnight email telling him I’m behind him fully. Reminding him to play the kids.
11:15 pm – cry.
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