by H. G. Nelson
Incidentally, Phillip cashed the cheque he wrote at the 1977 Grand Final Breakfast when he became the host of ABC Radio National’s late-night chat show, Late Night Live.
Historically, as the last coffee was put away, the action was firing up at the MCG. First out kicking the dew off the grass were the Under 19s, then the Seconds and finally at 2.30 pm it was the big show, the VFL Grannie. Keen supporters got there early and made a day of it. They saw the stars of tomorrow run around before the bounce in the big stink, which featured the stars of today.
Phillip cashed the cheque he wrote at the 1977 Grand Final Breakfast when he became the host of ABC Radio National’s late-night chat show, Late Night Live.
But in 1977, out of the blue, the VFL, using all its footballing wisdom and marketing know-how, decided to expand its Grannie footprint worldwide. In a rush towards the bright lights of the modern world it tapped the show business arts to carry the game to a whole new audience. The Grand Final brains trust decided to unleash pre-match entertainment for the very first time.
In marketing terms, the committee could not change the game, so they decided to value-add by getting artists, who in the main had nothing to do with football, to come along and have a warble, a cough and a spit before the bounce. The strategy was, if the VFL cannot get eyeballs with the game, then maybe we can get them with the packaging. It was a very modern concept.
The wheeze evolved so that chart-topping artists could sing their hits and maybe do the honours with a couple of moving Australian classics before the teams ran on. If international viewers in Vladivostok or Salt Lake City were intrigued by the pre-match entertainment, they might stay for the football.
Our great stars and, in time, international stars were to build a bridge between the MCG and the wider sporting community in non-VFL states in Australia, and then onto the world.
The man driving this change was the new VFL President, Dr Allen Aylett. Allen was a dentist by trade and a shinboner by choice. The Doc turned out for the North Melbourne Kangaroos 220 times and slotted 311 majors. He saluted in the best and fairest in 1958, 1959 and 1961. These are very impressive career statistics.
Allen played in an era when players worked at real jobs instead of earning all their income by pulling on the shorts and kicking a Sherrin. He even worked with teeth on the boundary line as a service to footballers who got whacked in the mouth during the game. After an unintentional accidental-on-purpose thump to the jaw, players could often lose a couple of molars. Allen was a great believer in numbering teeth with Texta colour, so that, if the worst should happen, the medical staff would know the right order in which to reinsert the teeth in the jaw line.
If the Kangaroos were winning, Allen often did a filling or two at quarter time for battling members of the cheer squad. His secretary, Valmai, would make appointments for extractions at half-time. During the long break he would set up the chair in the rooms, reach for the pliers and have a yank while the rest of the team had an orange. One of the larger players was tasked to hold the patient still.
It was a different time. People from the Arden Street area of North Melbourne did not have the loot to see a dentist during the week. If they got work done out the back at the footy on a Saturday afternoon for free, it was a win-win, especially when the Roos got up. Doctor Allen loved drilling teeth, he loved fixing smiles and he loved footy.
Once his slippers were under the VFL’s presidential table, Allen pushed through many changes. The Doc got night football up and running, moved the city of Sydney onto the VFL radar and made Sunday fixtures a regular part of the season. The 1977 Grannie had his dabs all over proceedings.
Doctor Allen established a Grand Final pre-match entertainment committee. He dubbed the operation Blueprint Blight after one of the Kangaroos’ greatest players. Maz, Stumbles, Choko, Scone and Fluff, all great football people, were chosen to sort out the Grand Final pre-match show and select the first line-up of talent. They met at football HQ in Jolimont House, Tuesdays at 6.30 pm. The Blueprint selection panel gathered for the first time in July 1977. They were given a spray by the boss, who highlighted the need for something special on the big day and told the panel to get cracking.
Fluff and Scone were early arrivals at footy HQ on the night. With nothing to do they wandered around poking into cupboards, and quite by chance discovered a couple of cylinders of nitrous oxide. This gas, used by dentists around the world, takes the edge off and the agony out of dental procedures. They found the gas stored in the cleaning closet behind a four-gallon drum of Exit Mould. President Aylett had parked the cylinders there for safe keeping and forgotten all about them.
They promised the Doc they would support local Victorian and Australian talent. But they could see a day when the game was so big it could easily support international artists.
The committee had dreams. Dreams that informed the whole development of Blueprint Blight. They promised the Doc they would support local Victorian and Australian talent. But they could see a day when the game was so big it could easily support international artists. Finally, their dream was that playing talent could be part of both the show business and footballing prongs on the day and maybe even sing the national anthem. That was the ultimate goal of the Blueprint Blight. Their nirvana merged show business and football.
This was all great in theory. Luckily, several hours later, with the meeting bogged down in the weeds of detail and getting nowhere, Fluff remembered the cylinders of gas.
Fluff, a former Coleman medallist with a great leap, cracked a cylinder with Stumbles’s help. They turned on the gas and stared, passing the mask around the table. Giggles, laughs and ideas all round lifted the mood!
Nitrous oxide slows down the brain and the body’s responses, inducing a feeling of euphoria, relaxation. When those two impulses weave their magic, fits of giggles often reduce imbibers to incoherent rabble. These were days when drugs played a different role in the community, especially in the alternative culture arts space.
The committee dubbed itself the Nitrous Oxide Five (NOF). The meetings were the stuff of legend. The National Film and Sound Archive recently unearthed a box of TDK cassettes that record the first two years of Oxide Five meetings. Sure, there is a lot of incoherent laughter, but the dreams, goals and principles of pre-match entertainment developed by the NOF come through loud and clear between the guffaws of stupidity.
On the chill-out gas, the whiteboard markers were busy and the sheets of butcher’s paper were inundated with entertainment ideas and show-business names. Early names of interest were the punk rockers The Clash, who released their first record in March that year. They were slightly ahead of the Sex Pistols in the committee’s must-have pecking order. The Pistols had dropped their smash ‘God Save the Queen’ to wild, spit-drenching acclaim in May. Fleetwood Mac had Rumours riding high in the charts but were considered unlikely to do the gig for free. There was a lot of interest in Elvis Presley. Everyone agreed the King would be a great get, and give the event a must-see international flavour. Overtures were made to Colonel Tom through back channels to sound out the King about an appearance. Sadly, the King dropped off the twig six weeks before the Grannie. Imagine the King at the G on the big day.
The superstars of the era flitted in and out of focus as the gas wove its magic. Suddenly, with the Clash, the Pistols, Mac and the King doubtful starters, Barry Crocker’s name was on the radar. Then, as these things happen, because of time limits and sheer exhaustion, Barry was in the frame for a warble before the bounce!
From today’s perspective Barry Crocker and the VFL Grannie do not seem a tight fit. But as they passed the gas around Barry made more and more sense to the NOF. His was the name they were looking for, in their gassed opinion. His was the name that all Melbourne wanted.
Fluff knew Barry was born in Geelong within walking distance of the Cattery. The singer was a Cats man, through and through. Fluff was convinced Barry would not let the VFL down. Crocker was even fiddling on a song called ‘Come
on the Cats’, which would be released the following year.
This Crocker-penned Kardinia Park chart-topping cracker rehearsed the essentials of any great club song. Words like ‘Geelong’ and ‘belong’ are front and centre in the first verse. Then follows a list of the champs from the great Geelong sides.
The chorus – well no surprises – heavily features the central theme of ‘Come on the Cats!’ This tune slots in at number two in the charts of all-time great Geelong tunes. It makes you want to pick up the phone, ring the club and become a Cats member. This simple musical chestnut was old school and very G-town.
Barry Crocker, the song-and-dance trouper, had been performing in musicals and television for over a decade. He won the 1970 Gold Logie for his lively work on Channel Nine’s A Sound of Music. At that same night of nights, Johnny Farnham was tapped as best teenage personality again. Johnny suddenly became John and made this award his own for many years. Soon Farnsie would be tasked to play a part on football’s biggest day. He strolled out for Grannie action for the first time in 1979.
Barry Crocker had struck pay dirt on the big screen with the dinky-di, true-blue character Barry McKenzie created by comic Barry Humphries. There were two ‘Bazza’ films: The Adventures of Barry McKenzie came out in 1972, and in 1974 Barry returned in Barry McKenzie Holds His Own. These were simple tales of a young Australian trying to make good in a wicked world in which everyone else was a no-good foreigner and completely clueless about beer.
Barry Humphries added to the language a number of urinal bon mots delivered by Barry McKenzie in these cinema classics, including ‘Drain the dragon’, ‘Siphon the python’, ‘Unbutton the mutton’ and ‘Point Percy at the porcelain’. All those cans of Fosters had to go somewhere. They all ended up in the sewage system via a nearby urinal.
Barry Crocker was crowned the King of Moomba in 1976. There was no bigger accolade in Australia during the seventies than being crowned with that impressive, jewel-encrusted bauble. The Logie and the King of Moomba hats were two pillars any great artist could hang a career on. The Oxide Five at the helm of Blueprint Blight knew if anyone could hold a crowd of 100,000 at the G, Barry could.
The Logie and the King of Moomba hats were two pillars any great artist could hang a career on.
As the big day loomed ever closer, Barry was in England appearing on the West End in the musical Man of La Mancha. He brought the show together, knocking out the ten o’clock number ‘The Impossible Dream’. That fact alone solved the committee’s tricky song selection dilemma.
The VFL flew Barry from London to the G and let him loose before the bounce. Footy people thought, ‘Well this is great! At last, the VFL is doing something right! How good is that Dr Allen Aylett? He is fantastic!’
Predictably enough, footy tragics saw ‘The Impossible Dream’ in footy terms. It was all about winning the flag against impossible odds. It spoke to the Collingwood faithful with the line about fighting an unbeatable foe – that is what they had done all season. They had done it all their life. From last to first ‘no matter how hopeless’ said it all. 1977 was going to be their year!
It’s hard to find reviews of Barry’s tonsil action on the day. But the fall-out from his 1977 Grand Final performance included a contribution to the nation’s lexicon of rhyming slang. The name Crocker was tipped into the concept of ‘a shocker’, as in truly dud.
The Crocker appearance in 1977 let the pre-match entertainment cat out of the bag and there was no chance of stuffing the tabby back into the hessian sack. Barry’s appearance changed Grand Final day forever.
The 1977 Grand Final experience before the bounce was out of this world!
What happened when the big men flew?
Once the Crocker, B. ‘Impossible Dream’ fluff had been cleared away, the umpire bounced the ball and the Grannie was finally underway.
The Magpies were minor premiers, with eighteen wins from twenty-two matches, but North were a big noise in the seventies. The Kangaroos had turned out for the last three Grand Finals. When they fronted in 1976, they fell at the final hurdle, beaten by Hawthorn by 30 points. The old footy adage maintains a team will lose a Grand Final before they win one. If that was the case, then North Melbourne were overdue. They were Shinboner hungry.
It was a one-sided first quarter. North were up by 18 points at quarter time. There were 2 points in it at half-time. North, after a bright start, were having a miserable time in front of the goal. The usually reliable Shinboner boot radar in front of the big sticks had gone on the blink.
The third quarter was all Collingwood, and at three-quarter time the Pies led by 27 points. The Kangaroos did not boot a major in the second and third quarters. They had plenty of chances but kicked 13 points in a row. That is a lot of missed opportunities. A very nervous Arnold Briedis was the main culprit, ending up with 7 minors for the match. Once a star misses a couple of sitters in a big stink, the confidence goes and then the brain-to-boot axis fades to rubble. When technique is shot, it is all downhill ending in a shallow puddle of nerves. Sooner or later, North had to slot the Sherrin between the big sticks. But the yips were getting bigger.
Pies people went into the last quarter confident that the long twenty-year drought was almost over. Ah but the faithful, the army, had overlooked the dreaded Colliwobbles. Could the curse ring true once again?
In the last quarter the tide came in. The Kangaroos kicked five unanswered majors while the Pies stumbled forward, snaring just one. When the final hooter blew the scores were level, not a struck match between them.
Total devastation and deflation all round. Scores: North 9.22 (76), Collingwood 10.16 (76). This points-heavy score-line anticipated the modern era in which accurate kicking is no longer a feature of the game.
As the final hooter honked, 108,224 spectators did not know where to look, what to do, whether to laugh or cry. Hardly anyone could remember the last drawn VFL Grannie. The first draw was thirty years before in 1948 when the Demons and the Bombers could not be separated at the death.
Post hooter, supercoach Ron said the Kangaroos should have won the Grannie, as his side had five more scoring shots than the Pies. Sadly, in those unenlightened times, the bookies did not pay on the number of scoring shots; they only paid out on the final score.
The VFL match committee replayed the draw the following week, which meant rustling up some acts to charm the fans before the bounce on that first day in October.
And the replay? Well, it was anti-climactic. North led from bounce to final hooter.
The Kangaroos took a firm grip on the match in the third quarter. Collingwood needed something.
They got it when Phil Manassa picked up the footy on the half-back line, swerved round Roo super boot Malcolm Blight, sprinted to the far end and booted truly. It was a stunning run, described by Channel Seven’s Peter Ewin as the ‘goal of the century’. And The Age newspaper rated Phil’s swerve, run and goal as ‘the fifth greatest Grannie moment of all time’. There is no pleasing some commentators.
Final scores in the replay: North 21.25 (151), Collingwood 19.10 (124). Pies lost by 27 points. This was Collingwood’s fifth Grand Final loss since their 1958 win. There were more desperate days at the G to come before they finally won their next flag. The Pies kept wobbling until 1990.
Sadly, the ‘goal of the century’ did not help the Pies, but in honour of the effort the Phil Manassa Medal is dished for AFL Goal of the Year.
Grand Finals are often forgettable affairs unless the beanie on your bonce is in the club colours of a winning side. Losers can suit themselves.
But for the dedicated footy head, Grand Finals mark the great moments of life. Time passes with the turn of the season. Winning supporters know exactly where they were, who they were with and what they were holding when the final siren sounded and Footy Records, beanies and half-drunk glasses of beer are tossed into the MCG twilight sky.
And the thing that mattered most, the TV ratings, were incredible. The 1977 Grannie was a smash
hit. Channel Seven paid the AFL $500,000 to televise the game and the same dollop again for the repeat the following week. One and a half million footy freaks tuned in, the greatest daytime TV audience at that time. One game, and suddenly the Melbourne television future was live-to-air footy.
In the early years, the Oxide Five were keen on cabaret stars, tapping Adelaide-born art teacher and musical theatre star Keith Michell in 1978 to follow Barry’s sod-turning blast. Keith worked his magic. The cabaret vibe persisted when the Oxide team asked Peter ‘I Go to Rio’ Allen to do the honours in 1980. Diana Trask, Olivia Newton-John and the Hey! Hey! It’s Saturday! man Daryl Somers all had a go in the first decade of Blueprint Blight pre-match action.
The Oxide Five’s approach in a nutshell: familiar acts with familiar tunes talking to the people of Melbourne. If stuck, the cabaret collective could always unite the nation with a football-tinged rendition of ‘Waltzing Matilda’.
Many performers, though keen to get involved, found the circumstances of the gig challenging.
The vast scale of the MCG, the distance between star and audience, the excitement of the football to come – all pulls the focus from the musical contributions. Unless the artist packs the bristle and brawn of AC/DC live no one hears a word. All the supporters see is an ant-sized artist stumbling about in the distance.
Everyone wants the singer to shut up and get off so the football can start. For the singer, it can be a thankless task, a cruel gig! Focus is hard to maintain as footy people drift off to have a jimmy in the nearby bushes or get a pie or a couple of beers that will see them through the first quarter before another mad dash to complete the toilet, food and beverage trifecta in time for the bounce for the second quarter.
