I woke up Monday morning an hour late for work, throat dryer than the Sahara, severe sun stroke and lots of snapchats from Smithy complaining about his eye for some reason. I’d figure that one out later, first I had to get out of bed. This proved to be a bad idea, as my legs were still drunk and I ended up face down on the floor, nursing a split lip but relishing the coldness of the hard boards on my burnt skin.

So how did I get here? Let’s back track to Sunday morning, the sun was shining, birds were presumably singing and I was more or less in the same position as I was on Monday, minus the heat stroke and a bunch of sooky snapchats. Excitement was in the air as I procured a lift from the ever reliable Emma Wilkinson and we headed down the M3 towards Frankston to watch the reserves hopefully complete the club’s trifecta of titles and probably most successful year in its 41 year existence.

It started off about as well as putting a group of drunken sailors in a room with baby harp seals. There was going to be blood. Sure enough on arrival at Frankston, I was informed that the bar probably wouldn’t be opened until halftime…in the first team game. Clearly, up with this i would not put, I began to rally anyone I could muster to my cause. After being banished from the shower crews warm up for “distracting the players”, I decided I would have to take matters into my own hands. I scanned the terrain for fruits I could ferment into some sort of liquor. Unfortunately Frankston weren’t even able to grow grass on their pitch, let alone cultivate some apple trees for homebrew cider. The dirt on the pitch also did nothing for my hangover.

Fortune shines on the brave however, and I’m the bravest of all. I received a call from my regular first team correspondent Tristan White, as luck would have it he was at Dan Murphy’s. With the refreshments sorted we settled in to watch the game.

The pitch was a disgrace, and I’m not quite sure that 6,090 square meters of dirt, horse shit and paint can be called a pitch anyway. Luckily however, it seemed to affect Frankston more, as Boronia were on the offensive from the first whistle. The first half was 90% effort and 10% results, and despite Boronia’s dominance, it took some sublime skills by Mathieu Toomer-Smith to force an own goal to break the deadlock. He turned on the magic again five minutes later, teeing up Grant to double the score and send the crowd into delirium. 2-0 the halftime scoreline.

I spent halftime sitting on the roof of the dugout with a cigarette hanging from my lip, pondering my ridiculous decision to wear jeans on a 28 degree day. My inner hipster found the solution and I cleverly McGuyvered my jeans into turn ups, clearly Frankston wasn’t getting the better of anyone today.

The teams emerged for the second half with coach Jarrod “the Führer” White pondering about Frankston’s professionalism, as Martin Armit painted the sidelines with half digested subway. It was clear from the first minute that Frankston had given up, and with man of the match Edmund Tan marauding down the right wing with the frequency and devastating effectiveness of Rebel Wilson at a free dessert buffet, Frankston were pulled out of shape consistently. The ball was cleverly squared to Michael Seeley, and he stroked it home from thirty yards with the weight and precision of a professional golfer. 3-0 and the onslaught continued. Grant caught the keeper off his line with twenty minutes to play, and hammered the ball home into the top corner to rub more sand in the demoralised bastards eyes. To his credit, Grant did try liven the keepers spirits somewhat, by missing two penalties for no reason whatsoever. But any confidence building exercises were dashed when five minutes from time, the ever impressive Mathieu Toomer-Smith pirouetted through the defence to stroke home the shower crews 60th league goal of the season, with the grace of a Ritalin fuelled ballerina. 5-0 the final score and the party had just started.

In the meantime the veterans won 1-0, the thirds lost 3-2 but with a career first goal for Jeff Howard.

So with champagne flowing and spirits at an all time high, we settled in with a slab of corona to watch the first team. I was a little distracted, and by a little distracted I mean I was well on the way to making Christian Slaters drinking problem look like he’d spilt holy water on himself. I’d be drenched in champagne and my memory starts to get abit hazy at this point. Here are the things I do know. Brian Roper took the lead in the club goal scoring charts, Damien Geoghegan made a rare appearance on the bench, and Liam Edwards was being pouty because I said he’d developed an adorable roundness around the midriff while he was overseas. I resigned myself to be nicer to Liam, and as such will not be mentioning how he got chipped from the kick off at some point in the game. Also the game was 4-0 when we ran out of beer and decided to relocate to the pub, although I believe the final score was 9-4. No idea who scored.

This is where the night escapes me. I’ve retained a little, my rough estimations put our alcohol consumption at between 14-20 jugs of beer, 15 Canadian clubs, 18 shots of sambuca, 6 glasses of captain Morgan’s and dry, 8 bottles of cider, and 5 cruisers. Between 15 of us. I learnt that if I try streaking Jarrod will definitely throw all my clothes onto Ferntree Gully Road, Michael Seeley’s favourite word is champion, Michael Leech won’t be served in a bar if he doesn’t put his shirt back on, glass makes a surprisingly satisfying sound when it hits asphalt, and Cameron “Smithy” Martin doesn’t like having lit cigarettes thrown at him. Also…I don’t think the club hotel will welcome us back anytime soon.

Beer of the day: Corona, just based on the sheer volume I drank.

Food of the day: Coleslaw that may or may not have been stolen from Red Rooster.

There will be no match report next week.

If you have a positive or negative response or just generally feel like disagreeing, I can be contacted at bscmatchreports@gmail.com.