The last couple of years for a Fremantle supporter have been like laying on a slab with all these guys stabbing you with daggers saying that we'll be better off. When the screams of pain and anguish went unanswered they started using clubs, axe handles and baseball bats. But the start of this season all you could do way just lay there whimpering and bleeding hoping that you could just last out another game with a pulse.
Then the home Derby arrived and they carved out your heart with a broken rusty spade and tossed the slightly twitching organ into a bucket of rancid vomit outside the castle wall. The last bit of breath in your carcass was wheezing out of that gaping hole in your chest as you lay there on that cold slab too effed to make a sound.
Outta the blue, in comes Prince Belly and Quiet Dale with swords and battleaxes a swinging to save the day. A bit late, but God's Truth, just in time.
Who bloody cares who the next King is going to be. Get me up off this slab and let's all have a tankard of grog to celebrate being alive again.