In light of the drama of the past week, Demonland hired a private eye to sort out what was really happening at the Melbourne Football Club as we enter the 2025 Trade Period. This is the first report filed in the past hour …

Off Track

When the 1:30 pm Virgin Airlines flight from Tullamarine touched down at Coolangatta Airport on Saturday afternoon, I thought the Gold Coast would already be caught up in a frenzy over Brand Petracca, but, boy, was I wrong! It was NRL Grand Final Weekend in the Sunshine State, and the locals were totally obsessed with the Brisbane Broncos taking down the Melbourne Storm. Nothing else mattered.

I searched all the nightclubs and fancy restaurants, but there was no sign of Christian Petracca anywhere. Acting on a tip-off, I took an Uber to a luxurious penthouse apartment in Surfers Paradise, only to discover that I had arrived late.

It turned out that the digs belonged to some big cheese who sponsors the St Kilda Football Club, and three days prior, he and the club's president had taken Suns player Sam Flanders out for dinner and signed him up on a contract to the Saints for a small fortune to turn up for them in 2026 and beyond. The concierge downstairs muttered something about a conga line of AFL players coming in and out of that apartment for the last three months.

Like me, the Demons were also late to the party, but let's be real – Melbourne was never in the running for Flanders. I scoured the apartment from top to bottom, but Tracc was nowhere to be found, nor was his entourage of lawyers, accountants, website designers and food tasters.

The next morning, I turned up at the Farmers Market at HOTA by the Nerang River, hoping to find some food stall selling Nonna's legendary bolognese sauce, but once again I struck out big time. I was starting to hit rock bottom with a big fat zero to show for my sleuthing.

I was about to throw in the towel. Tomorrow marked the start of the AFL's Trade Period, and I had nothing to help me unravel the fate of the Melbourne Football Club or explain why the new coach was giving his players their marching orders, one by one.

There had already been action in the form of free agency movement, but that had been mainly for the benefit of the Saints, because, of course, they need a miracle. I was getting desperate and found myself in a bar, making buddies with a Coconut Mojito while watching the rugby league final. I was desperate, and after all, what's a little desperation without a good drink?

A brunette sidled into the seat next to mine. “Mind if I crash the party?” and before I could respond, she ordered a schooner of XXXX and guzzled it down in a single gulp. Not long after, I face-planted. I had fallen for the oldest trick in the book. She had slipped me a Mickey.

When I came to, I had a headache to rival the worst hangover, and the room was swaying from side to side like a bad dance move. Except it wasn’t a room, it was a boat, and I was somewhere out at sea, feeling a bit like a drunken sailor. She was pointing a Beretta at my head, and I was pretty sure she wasn't there to give me a pep talk.

She was there to give me a friendly reminder that in Queensland, tomorrow was Kings Birthday (I checked it up - it’s true) and, just as in the southern states, every such day of royal celebration means Melbourne and Collingwood go head-to-head in some form of football battle. Tomorrow, those clubs would be making their final pitch for the services of Gold Coast midfielder Bailey Humphrey as part of a major move in the AFL Trade Period and I was to be the key component in the Petracca exchange.

To be continued …

1 minute ago, Demonland said:

In light of the drama of the past week, Demonland hired a private eye to sort out what was really happening at the Melbourne Football Club as we enter the 2025 Trade Period. This is the first report filed in the past hour …

Off Track

When the 1:30 pm Virgin Airlines flight from Tullamarine touched down at Coolangatta Airport on Saturday afternoon, I thought the Gold Coast would already be caught up in a frenzy over Brand Petracca, but, boy, was I wrong! It was NRL Grand Final Weekend in the Sunshine State, and the locals were totally obsessed with the Brisbane Broncos taking down the Melbourne Storm. Nothing else mattered.

I searched all the nightclubs and fancy restaurants, but there was no sign of Christian Petracca anywhere. Acting on a tip-off, I took an Uber to a luxurious penthouse apartment in Surfers Paradise, only to discover that I had arrived late.

It turned out that the digs belonged to some big cheese who sponsors the St Kilda Football Club, and three days prior, he and the club's president had taken Suns player Sam Flanders out for dinner and signed him up on a contract to the Saints for a small fortune to turn up for them in 2026 and beyond. The concierge downstairs muttered something about a conga line of AFL players coming in and out of that apartment for the last three months.

Like me, the Demons were also late to the party, but let's be real – Melbourne was never in the running for Flanders. I scoured the apartment from top to bottom, but Tracc was nowhere to be found, nor was his entourage of lawyers, accountants, website designers and food tasters.

The next morning, I turned up at the Farmers Market at HOTA by the Nerang River, hoping to find some food stall selling Nonna's legendary bolognese sauce, but once again I struck out big time. I was starting to hit rock bottom with a big fat zero to show for my sleuthing.

I was about to throw in the towel. Tomorrow marked the start of the AFL's Trade Period, and I had nothing to help me unravel the fate of the Melbourne Football Club or explain why the new coach was giving his players their marching orders, one by one.

There had already been action in the form of free agency movement, but that had been mainly for the benefit of the Saints, because, of course, they need a miracle. I was getting desperate and found myself in a bar, making buddies with a Coconut Mojito while watching the rugby league final. I was desperate, and after all, what's a little desperation without a good drink?

A brunette sidled into the seat next to mine. “Mind if I crash the party?” and before I could respond, she ordered a schooner of XXXX and guzzled it down in a single gulp. Not long after, I face-planted. I had fallen for the oldest trick in the book. She had slipped me a Mickey.

When I came to, I had a headache to rival the worst hangover, and the room was swaying from side to side like a bad dance move. Except it wasn’t a room, it was a boat, and I was somewhere out at sea, feeling a bit like a drunken sailor. She was pointing a Beretta at my head, and I was pretty sure she wasn't there to give me a pep talk.

She was there to give me a friendly reminder that in Queensland, tomorrow was Kings Birthday (I checked it up - it’s true) and, just as in the southern states, every such day of royal celebration means Melbourne and Collingwood go head-to-head in some form of football battle. Tomorrow, those clubs would be making their final pitch for the services of Gold Coast midfielder Bailey Humphrey as part of a major move in the AFL Trade Period and I was to be the key component in the Petracca exchange.

To be continued …

BRILLIANT!