Mr Perth Stadium

What can be said about Alan that hasn’t already been said about an old plumbing system? He’s loud, unpredictable and you’re almost guaranteed to cop an unpleasant spray from him.

The only impressive thing about Alan is the truly momentous effort he puts in on game day to squeeze the jersey he bought in 2016 over his planetary girth.

Arguably the least impressive thing about Alan is his system of controlling his rabid pack of red cordialings. As anyone who has caught the train to Perth Stadium will know full well.

He believes the key to good game-day parenting is to let the little tackers tire themselves out. Should that involve annoying the living shit out of you, then so be it. Parenting is about give and take after all.

At the gate, Alan prepares to engage DEFCON 1 bogan flapping if the security guard checking his bag finds “daddy’s little 6.9% helpers” buried under some decoy ham sandwiches and shit.

People in the seats surrounding him don’t know it yet but they are about to endure 2 hours of the fury of a middle-aged bloke who struggles to walk the line between passionate footy fan and outright psychopath.

Thanks to the tins in the toilet, his base level of rage is already pretty high and he has one target in mind – every single umpiring decision against his team.

By the 15-minute mark, he’s already dropping more C’s than a mediocre student’s academic transcript. A regular cuntcaso painting an abstract picture of poorly mangled cuss words.

After a call of deliberate, he escalates his abuse and moves on to direct threats to “white maggots”. A term he uses despite the umpires not wearing white for some years, he just likes it and if you don’t like it… well. You know, you can meet him after the game when he’s frantically trying to find an umpire leaving the stadium. Separating from the herd.

At halftime, Alan decides to turn his little slice of the men’s urinals into Kalamunda Wet & Wild. It’s unclear why he abandons all conventional standards of toilet decorum at the footy. He just does and he motivates his boys too as well.

After mostly pissing on the floor they leave without washing their hands and proceed to get some snacks. Uh oh, it’s spray time again and Alan has decided it’s the 19-year-old girl’s fault the pies & sausage rolls are priced as they are.

After making the seasonal worker cry he decided to grab a tray of beers for himself. He makes a stern point of only drinking mid-strength because he’s forced to and makes no effort to properly balance the tray of mass froffstruction on his power waddle back to his seat.

He’s come full circle, from verbal to literal sprays as women & children dodge the fierce sea of spilling beer that accompanies his every ungraceful step.

4 beers and 4 jacks deep, Alan decides to initiate beast mode. He’s gone as troppo as Tarzan after finding Jane swinging from another man’s vine. Causing an absolute scene while egging on his kids to swear loudly too.

Finally, someone a few seats down tells him to shut up. Alan can’t believe someone would have the nerve to rain on his borderline-meltdown parade.

His well-trained kid’s chirp, “hit him in the dick, dad!” God, he’s proud at that moment. After some back and forth security comes down for the unpleasant job of removing Alan from the stadium.

It takes 3 of them but at least they get an in-depth rundown of everything that is wrong with the culture he reckons they’re from.

Needless to say, Alan awards him the 3 points for sticking it up everyone’s arse and his boy’s 2 and 1 point respectively for making an old lady audibly gasp.

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