Mr Feral Footy Fan


Unburdened by the weight of respectability,Macca heads to Domain Stadium to cause more mayhem than Chris Brown and Jeff Farmer on a double date. Being 5 foot fuck all and repellent to woman, Macca is no stranger to angrily snatching the scraps that life throws at large-foreheaded bottom feeders. With no prospect of sober decorum and slim risk of getting his dick wet, Macca acts like Fred Flintstone after he caught Barney giving Wilma a bronte-boning of cunt-istoric proportions.

Macca sits in his Kenwick Dwelling and slams back lonely tins of pre-mix fight-fuel. He is adorned in the purple armour of a bonafide footy warrior. He sees himself as a “passionate supporter” and excuses any outbursts of catastrophic dickheadery as simply “getting lost in the moment”. Years ago he used to go to the games with mates, now the list of people who will willingly sit next to him, is shorter than his overcompensation-worthy peen that last felt a woman’s warmth when Don Burke’s pug was still alive. 

By the time Macca gets to Domain Stadium, his Intoxication levels are somewhere between a Brownlow’d Fevola and Luke Hodge on a road trip. He staggers and uncouthly sways into scarf-clad fans at the entrance. His piss stained hands clumsily feed his ticket through the scanner and the self-professed gladiator enters the arena. All the rage of a thousand declined Centrelink payments rage through Macca’s fists and the usual sights and sounds of the footy anger him in ways a therapist couldn't explain. 

The opening bounce switches Macca from “mumbling drunkard” into “rabid pisshead” and he incoherently foghorns obscenities every four seconds. With each classless fury-boom, the patience of the crowd grows thinner than Bert Newton’s locks. Agitated punters start to turn on the “passionate” Macca and tell him to shut his hole. The voices of reason only serve to send Macca deeper into a delusion of persecution and he enter the wankerish mindset of a me-against-the-world-cunt.

During the second quarter, Macca has a beautiful James Blunt moment and spots his spirit animal: an equally “passionate” shithead who throws a shadow punch at Hawthorn’s Isaac Smith. Macca saw his face, in a crowded place but this time, he knows exactly what to do: step up his level of anti-social behaviour so he can be crowned the king neanderthal in the jungle. A few more mouth-missing swigs of beer later, and Macca begins directly threatening the supporters around him, “next cunt who farking tells me to calm down is copping it ay”.

A fed-up woman makes the mistake of directing bravery towards a coward and tells Macca to respect the family environment he is in. Obviously watching Freo choke, inspires Macca to latch onto the woman’s throat like a police dog in Rockingham. The power of the assault is directly inverse to the power Macca experiences as a “man” and despite his most sincere hopes, the act doesn’t make his dick any bigger.

Macca’s night ends by being swarmed by the crowd and angrily fuming in the back of a paddy wagon. While he soaks up the cold ambiance of a police cell, the only thing on his mind is the scummy excuses he will tell the magistrate on Monday morning. Perhaps he could raise the defence of crippling poorcuntery? Who could object?