Special thank to our RA’s Gosford resident Rowan, who this week came up with this review of the events that unfolded in Newcastle

MARC POOLEY: MORE BEER THAN MAN

OK, I’m not going to bore you with stories about the atmosphere on the hill, the fact the Raiders wasted more opportunities than Greg Norman, or my sneaking suspicions that Newcastle fans are all related to each other and have two heads. You’re here to read about Marc Pooley, a man who went from being ‘that balding bloke who went bananas at the Souths game’ to a legend in the space of three hours and 37 standard drinks.
Pooley started drinking early, and was already well on the road to being smashed when he jumped on the train to Wyong at around four o’clock. As soon as we pulled out of the station he pulled out a tub of vodka jelly – which was more vodka than jelly, I can tell you – and started downing it. By the time we hit Broadmeadow he was stumbling all over the place like Michael J. Fox, but he was just getting started.
We made it to Wests Leagues and Pooley tucked into a couple beers. Wait, scratch that, he didn’t tuck in as much as he poured them down his throat as if his stomach was on fire. Deadset, he’d polished off two schooners before I’d made it a third of the way through my first and he wasted no time heading back to the bar for more. It was then that we sensed something very, very special was going on. Not even the fact that Mohawk was Mohawk-less could take away from the magic.
We made it to the ground with about 20 seconds to spare, and Pooley disappeared to the bar. He staggered back to the hill where Sik Nik (it probably wasn’t him, but let’s say it was) started begging him to skoll three beers. He did it, then headed back to the bar for more. The bar staff already knew him by name and the game had only just kicked off!
After that the jelly made another appearance, and it was around this time that Quentin (Kenihan, not Pongia) turned up to watch the game. You’ll remember him as the wheelchair-bound larrikin who stole our hearts because he’s a midget in a wheelchair.
Anyway, trust Pooley to accidentally spill a beer all over Quentin, forcing the poor bastard to scoot off into the distance.

Perhaps overcome with disappointment after his idol deserted him – or due to the fact he’d been stealing wine off every girl in the vicinity – Pooley then fell down the hill, gathering momentum like a snowball and sending friends and foes alike scuttling out of his way. Think of that scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark with the boulder, but replace the rock with Pooley and Indy with a toddler in a Knights jersey, and you’ve got some idea of how terrifyingly hilarious the whole thing was.
But nothing – and I mean nothing – can prepare you for what happened next. As far as we were concerned, Pooley just vanished into thin air after that. We called his phone, but he didn’t answer. We started chanting his name, but he didn’t come back. The second half started and the Raiders were still losing, and the place was dry and barren without our lantern of hope. The game finished and we walked out with our heads hung low and no Pooley.
It wasn’t until days later that we learnt the full, horrific tale, and it was so batshit insane that a donkey with a fish taped to its head would look normal in comparison.
During the half-time break Pooley – who by this point was more beer than man – vomited on an opposition fan. Let me say that again: MARC POOLEY PARKED A TIGER ON A NEWCASTLE SUPPORTER.
Tragically I don’t have a photo of Marc chundering, so you’ll have to make do with this picture I found after a brief Google search. Please note that it looks almost exactly like Pooley.
Anyway, the fans reportedly sprinted away to clean the chunks of carrot and globules of jelly off themselves, only to be replaced by a gang of rent-a-cops intent on turfing our hero out of the ground. But he didn’t go quietly, managing to escape the baton-carrying boofheads for nearly half an hour before being dragged out and threatened with a lifetime ban. From Newcastle. Which is like being banned from having a broken bottle shoved up your blurter.
As the rest of the Army (there was a good turnout… did I mention we were at a football game?) filed out of the ground after the final whistle, Pooley was being dragged into his friends’ car, but he hadn’t put on enough of a performance yet. He kept on puking everywhere like that chick out of The Exorcist, so they dumped him at the nearest train station and wished him luck in not being killed on the way home. Thankfully, he made it home in one piece, which means he’ll be able to disgrace himself at plenty more games to come.
All in all, I haven’t had a night that memorable since Chad from Playing it Straight cracked onto me, and I can’t see how anyone will be able to top ‘King’ Marc Pooley’s inspirational performance. Not even if Butters chows down on another tub of butter.

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