UPDATE:

Dispatch from D-Day
Dateline: Dawn, D-Day.
Never before in the anal of PunchDrunk History has such a situation situated itself such.
Here we sit just 2 games from the end of the home-and-away season, 2 games from the end of PunchDrunk proper for 2010, and no less than 5 Drunks can win it. 4 with a good chance, and one who's totally kidding himself.
Grant's put himself way back in contention, and through a heady combination of luck, wisdom and pig-headed loyalty nabbed the result of yesterday's knife-edge Hawks v Pies melodrama. Now we have not three, but 4 Drunks nestled together on 118, Sam's still out in front, Franco, Dickwad and Grant trailing only through inferior margin-calls.
Exciting? Tell me about it.
You'd have to think it all hinges on who does what in the very last game of the season, the twilight game, the toss-up game at the G between the Dees and the Roos. It's a day of chances, guesses, second-guesses but no second-chances.
Like a game within a game, like a wheel within a wheel, like a hotdog in a bun, like a hand in a rubber glove, like a finger in your ear-hole, the machinations are as endless as this sentence appears to be... will it ever end? The psychological by-play is as important as the game itself.
Go forth unto battle chaps, where only the Drunkest may prevail.

p.s. Was anyone else mortified to receive the 16 pages of magpie filth delivered to their bedside inside the Age yesterday morn, in lieu of the Good Weekend? Excuse me but what the fuck was that all about? Those c*nts don't need any more encouragement, or free advertising features. Made a good bin-liner at my place. At least the Hawks improved the weekend for most of us a few hours later.