We end the weekend with enough whisky in us to sedate a horse, but never get into too much trouble. Or maybe we just don’t remember it. Inevitably though, some spectators go overboard — last year someone stole a taxi and drove it across the harbour.
The stadium’s south stand is where the serious partying happens, resembling a sun-burnt, booze-sodden, fancy dress version of Pleasure Island from Pinocchio.
I venture no further than the executive level boxes these days but one young capital markets lawyer acquaintance was there and got into the full swing, as it were, for reasons that will become clear.
Usually a picture of probity and decorum, by Saturday evening she was starting to pick fights with burly lads and her boyfriend had to escort her outside – less fun festival, more The Football Factory.
However, the terrace legend's action packed day didn't finish there. She tried to gain re-entry but when a police officer barred her, she went for him too. Luckily, she was so liberally refreshed by now that she couldn’t hit the side of a bar and instead, to avoid arrest, went on the run.
And run she did, straight into a barrier, which flipped her posterius super pectus, knocking out her front teeth.
I saw All-Gums-Blazing’s boyfriend in the stands on Sunday. He told me she was hungover and humiliated, but home. But there was no rest for the wicked as she spent the day desperately seeking a dentist open on a Sunday.