In just under three hours, the Australian Rules Football Grand Final will kick off in Melbourne. Like the crowds who used to frequent the Colosseum, punters demand a fight from their heroes, their demi-gods, and they are not satisfied until they see blood in the fight-til-the-death battle. In a repeat of last year's match, teams from New South Wales and Western Australia will run around after a pigskin, beat each other up, and brawl in the melee we like to refer to as AFL.
To get to the Grand Final, the West Coast Eagles pushed a lot of other blokes out of the way to get the ball (in what I think was rather a girly fashion, like something I'd do),
while the Sydney Swans confounded their opponents, who couldn't keep up with their spectacular demonstration of ballet's fifth position.
Although I'm not in Australia, I still like to celebrate this eventful day. Like last year, Jim-Bob secured us invites to the Australian Embassy to watch the game on the big screen and to eat Four'n'Twenty pies and drink fine Australian sparkling wine (we're not allowed to call it champagne anymore). The only downside is that I'll miss hearing Roy and HG call the game. I've been listening to their podcasts recently when out and about, and have received some strange looks as I guffaw in laughter at their bullshit.
Photos courtesy of RealFooty.