Their cries heave, herds-long

When Collingwood won their first flag in 2300 B.C. the preacher, who wrote Ecclesiastes, spoke for the times to come:

I have seen all the work that is done under the sun and behold, all is vanity and vexation of the spirit. That which is crooked cannot be made straight and that which is wanting cannot be numbered.

And later, much later, after they’d won another flag in the late nineteenth century Gerald Manley Hopkins was prompted to write his poem “No Worst There is None.”

No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief,

More pangs will, schooled at forepangs wilder wring.

Comforter, where, where is your comforting?

Mary, mother of us, where is your relief?

My cries heave, herds-long…

And it is with great difficulty that I remind myself that it’s only a game and, for God’s sake, I don’t even barrack for the Saints. But pretty much every Grand Final since 1980 has been won by the team that I didn’t want to win. All right, not every one, but most.

But it’s only a game. There is food in the cupboard and a roof over our heads and when we leave the house today nobody will try to blow us up. Not even Collingwood supporters. And Tony Abbott is still not the Prime Minister no matter how many times he sooks and lies about having “won” the election. And despite everything there is every chance that we’ll get a carbon tax out of this cracking parliament.

But the Saints still lost. Again. “Comforter, where is your comforting?”