My Brownlow night with Brendan Fevola and Brynne “Flash” Gordon
DARE I say it, has the Brownlow become a little boring? It is certainly a far cry from the Wild West days when Brendan Fevola reigned supreme. | The Brownlow fashion form guide
Brownlow Red Carpet
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IT was the night we first saw Brynne “Flash” Gordon bounce on to the red carpet and watched as Brendan Fevola royally disgraced himself in front of the cameras.
Yes it was the 2009 Brownlow and AFL’s night of night’s has never been the same since.
Gone is the jock vulgarity, the buffoonery, the ill-advised and ill-fitting frocks.
There is nary a diamond-encrusted G-string gown to be seen.
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The boorish behaviour and lovable louts from the infamous “Fevola Brownlow” night have been replaced with sanitised speeches, wide-eyed sobriety and stylists clinically checking every inch of a WAG from coiffed hair to manicured toe, as they live in trepidation of getting placed on a worst dressed list.
Dare I say it, has the Brownlow become a little boring?
But let me take you back to the night when the Wild West AFL days were in full swing.
I was a Brownlow ingenue and boy what a night it was to be deflowered.
Somewhat nervous to hit the ruby rug for the first time, I hitched my media-required black tie dress code down and shuffled into the scrum with dictaphone and notes in hand.
All of a sudden, the empty Crown casino carpet was awash with fake tans, bling and nude dresses.
There always seems to be a theme on the blue, sometimes, red carpet — 2012 was all about the baby bump, last year was inundated with white, beads and the long-sleeve, but 2009 was the year of the understated flesh-coloured gown.
An audible sigh swept across the hyped-up, frothing journalists and snappers wishing for a bit of leg, or the holy grail, a nip-slip.
“It’s all so dull dah-ling” one red carpet veteran exclaimed.
And in sashayed Brynne.
The tired media scrum revved into action. Who was this buxom smiling Vegas-style girl on Doc Edelsten’s arm?
Brynne and her bejewelled bra was like a gift sent from the Brownlow heavens, all of a sudden there was something to talk about.
That was until Brendan Fevola started sinking Crownies.
Watching the count go on and on it was obvious Fevola was the one to watch as he haw-hawed and cheered with his Carlton crew.
You have to give it to Fev, he certainly was the only one in the room who could make Demetriou’s droning appear as though he was at the party of the year.
Following the count, Fevola could barely contain his excitement.
Outside the Palladium, Fevola was given the — in hindsight probably not such a good idea — task of hosting The Footy Show’s Street Talk segment.
And he did not hold back, again with his trusty two Crown Lagers in tow. Thank goodness the beverage was the major sponsor of the night as those stubbies got an awful lot of airtime.
Fev hammed it up for his terrified cameraman and sound assistant, simulating sex and puckering up for some equally terrified and unsuspecting WAGs and bystanders before swearing black and blue while interviewing players.
At one stage he had the previous year’s winner Adam Cooney in a headlock before knocking a full bottle of beer — yes, Crown Lager — out of the Bulldog’s hand and into the bevy of WAG frocks.
Not long after, holding a fistful of notes, Fev tried to pay a waiter more than $500 for giving him free alcohol.
“Just keep it,” Rebecca Twigley told the confused looking waiter as she tried not so successfully to steady the mighty spearhead.
Even his stern and heavily pregnant wife couldn’t calm down the wobbly Blues player.
“Brendan, I’m telling you — stop drinking,” she said.
“But I just did Street Talk,” he slurred.
“Oh yeah and that went really well,” she quipped.
At one point I saw Fevola on the balcony at the River Room, where the afterparty was held, smoking cigarettes in the rain and vomiting on his shoes.
Crown security kept a strict eye on him as he slapped players in the face, only to then passionately hug and kiss them.
“I love you man,’’ Fevola said while embracing teammate Marc Murphy.
“I really, really love you.’’
As the party finished and the music died, Fevola took to the stage and sang Dirty Dancing’s I Had the Time of My Life to an amused crowd.
At 3:15am, security asked him to leave, but he tussled and swore with guards, before his Carlton teammates ushered him out the door.
He turned to me with wobbly boot and asked to bum a smoke, I obliged and watched as Fev stumbled down the city’s unsuspecting dark streets like Charlie Chaplin at the end of a movie.
Yes if the Brownlow was dubbed the Boozelow the former Carlton great was the sure-fire winner.
The Brownlow of yesteryear has certainly changed since that binge-boozing night.
And while that’s probably a good thing, it sure as hell isn’t as fun.
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