Hear me, oh weeping one. Hear me and no longer despair. The sobbing and cursing may now cease.

Open your eyes. Lift your head from the tear-soaked pillows. Run a hand through the hair that hasn’t felt the authoritative caress of a comb since only you know when. Rise and greet the sun that even now is striving to pierce through the clouds that have dampened the sky and the curtains that were drawn in upon themselves and the sorrowful room into which you’ve burrowed like an anti-social wombat.

Here me and no longer despair, for I bring good news.

The internet has lied to you. And this time, unlike those other times (the Nigerian Prince and the $2000 virility enhancer) it isn’t your fault.

I’m not a massive fan myself (North seems to monopolise most of my energy), but as a North Melbourne follower I’ve had my share of disappointments over the journey. Which is why there’s no judgement on my behalf regarding your current predicament.

It must have sucked.

Really sucked.

I mean to say – who knows when (if ever) Boy George and his mates will tour Australia again?

You feel as though you’ve missed it – your last, maybe only chance to share a space with your heroes and sing and dance and whoop and give yourself up to their rhythm and their narrative and a history that they wrote and you read and so together you somehow lived.

Right now, it might feel like the end of the world.

But I’m telling you, you’ll get beyond this.

Not being courtside for Karma Chameleon at Rod Laver Arena this November is a blow, no denying it.

But it’s ok. Really, it is.

Because even though you couldn’t get tickets to the gig, the internet lied to you. There is another group in town who you can watch and love and share a story with – and it will be so much easier and so much more meaningful than a quartet of Englishmen with a penchant for top hats and hair-accoutrements.

Our colours may not be ‘red, gold and green’ (that’d be a weird looking footy jumper) but you’ll quickly find that royal blue and white vertical stripes align with both the timeless fashion sense and potential 80s pastiche that you may choose to imbibe.

Rejoice, my friend.

For there is only one Culture Club, and it’s headquarters are located not in Oxford Street, but in Arden Street.

It is, and always will be, the North Melbourne Football Club.

And if you doubt me, don’t.

For on a Saturday afternoon in Hobart in which the very elements seemed to roar and howl the story of our looming defeat, twenty two men stood defiant and proud. And all and any doubt about what we stand for as a club and players and supporters was blown into the southern ocean like so many empty chip packets and the hopes of so many Melbourne supporters.

We’ve played better before. We’ve won by more before. We’ve beaten better teams in more important matches in front of bigger crowds.

But I can’t remember when a victory meant so much.

Forget Boy George and synthesised pop. This was a victory deserving of a ballad. This was Johnny Cash, Willy Nelson, Waylon Jennings and Kris Kristofferson. This was gnarled hands and old guitars and voices that whisky and smoke have turned to gravel and rust.

This was The Highwaymen: Against The Wind.

For the gale that sings across the surface of Bellerive Oval with the regularity and deadly bite of a cat-o-nine-tails in the hand of an eighteenth century parole officer has now become as much a part of the Hobart experience as the Salamanca Market and the sheep on the MONA ferry.

The gale taunts players, commentators and punditry alike. In an AFL that craves control and seeks it through high walls and closed roofs that serve to shield us not only from the capricious realities of the natural world but also from the mundanity of our own gentrification, the gale brings us back to a time and place we love to remember but fear to return.

A time where players had to prepare for the weather, not just for the post-match interview.

A time where drop punts were called torpedo punts and kicking with or against a gale was as much a part of the game as sharpened boot studs and soaked woolen jumpers that weighed as much as the sheep from which they came.

I don’t know if it has a name, the gale, but it deserves one.

I shall call it the Bellerive Telegraph: deliverer of good news and bad.

The news leading into the day was that of a Melbourne victory. And at three quarter time on Saturday, the message was loud and clear and echoed from the island to the mainland:

Sorry North, you haven’t done enough.

Seriously now, look me in the eye and tell me you thought we’d win at three quarter time. Liar liar pants on fire. We all thought that after a valiant effort, we were going to get run over in the last.

Indeed, at three quarter time on Saturday the entire AFL universe was telling North that it would be acceptable to fade away into the Salamanca breeze like the ghosts of convicts passed.

Declan Mountford had gone off in the second quarter for a concussion test after a whack to the back of the head. He had returned, but was surely not at his best. Jarrad Waite had twinged a calf and was relegated to observation from the bench. Ziebell had delivered the impact of a potato cake salvaged from a drop in the ocean. Preuss was sore and we were young, raw and ragged.

But most importantly, we hadn’t done enough with the wind in the third quarter. We’d dominated possession but only kicked the three goals. The last ten minutes of the third looked like an elite-level version of the lunchtime classic: Markers in the Pack, such was the glee and continuity of our bombs to the top of the square.

It’s funny, but at half time I muted the television. Call it parochialism, call it paranoia – I felt that the commentary narrative of a pre-ordained Melbourne victory was preventing an objective analysis of the match and North’s effort, and I didn’t care for it.

A wonderful thing, liberating oneself from the shackles of undesirable noise. Try it, sometime. Have faith in your own knowledge and feel for the game.

As the third quarter started I actually pondered the possibility of the wind having died down at half time. Without audio, I had no way of verifying my query.

Then Luke McDonald kicked a goal from the airport and I thought, ‘Nope, wind’s still blowing.’

Then Scott Thompson ‘made it rain’ like a street-baller shooting from down town and I briefly thought about taking off my shirt and waving around my head.

But it didn’t last. The problem with markers in the pack is that the pack is generally too big and this makes it really hard to take a mark. Such was the case in the third term. As the siren sounded it left me and you and Brad Scott underwhelmed.

A six point lead at the final break wasn’t going to be enough against a young, hungry, capable side kicking with the Telegraph at their backs and a monkey the size of King Kong’s obese cousin sitting on their shoulders.

This game was theirs – all they had to do was take it. And for us, another gritty surrender was being offered to us with the honour owed to a defiant Celtic chief at the feet of a Roman general.

Who could argue with Ziebell being rested throughout the last quarter? With Tarrant having his back iced up and saved to fight another day? With Preuss saving his back, Mountford his head, Scott his dignity and the supporters their pride?

Those poor, Melbourne bastards. If our victory wasn’t so magnificent, I might have felt sorry for them.

There’s more than a little part of me that can identify with the long-suffering Melbourne supporter that genuinely thought that the weekend was their chance to break a sixteen game losing streak – an achievement of complete and utter supplication that would make the Washington Generals nod in gruff approval.

But not much. Not really.

Tanking is removing responsibility from yourself and placing it onto someone else. It’s the football equivalent of getting your mum to write you a sick note so you don’t have to sit your exam, and it’s what this mob did time and time again while we were working three jobs on the other side of town just to pay for second-hand text books.

So nah, I’m not really sorry.

And though it might appear that I’m preaching this from atop a particularly high looking horse, I don’t really care.

You don’t understand. I like horses. And North Melbourne is like the ninety three year old cavalry-officer in January 1939. As a matter of principal, we just don’t tank.

Why should we, with the amount of talent we have at our disposal?

That’s not to say that Saturday was perfect. Oh no no no. Far from it. But the result in this case certainly justified the means, and any hiccups along the way.

Regardless, it started well. In a decision that in and of itself served as a reminder of why Jack Ziebell will always be a better footballer than Trent Cotchin, the skipper won the toss and decided to kick with the wind.

(I know it was a while ago Trent, but your decision to kick against a category two hurricane in the 2014 elimination final in Adelaide may well be the reason that Dustin Martin ultimately decides to leave the club. And who can blame him?)

Once again Jarrad Waite started on the half back line. Half back, wing, forward fifty – this guy is the James Bond of Brad Scott’s newly emerging North Melbourne:

“The names Waite. Jarrad Waite. License to play wherever I want.”

Robbie Tarrant and the skipper were welcomed back into a team that, if some are to be believed, should have given them another week’s R and R, such was our apparent desire for a bottom of the ladder finish.

We’re not perfect. We still do things that all Shinboners hope that we won’t be doing in two to three years time.

We have a tendency to fumble the odd bouncing ball inside defensive fifty under not much pressure. We don’t mind kicking more balls into the crowd than the pre-match entertainment of the Grand Final Footy Show. And we have the tendency to rush our handballs under pressure – somewhat akin to a kidnap victim trying to address a letter for help in the moments before the door is kicked down by hooded assailants. They don’t always make it to the desired address.

But I’m nit-picking. Much like last week, this week isn’t a time to dwell on the minutia of our shortcomings. It’s a time to celebrate all the tiny victories that led to an ultimate success.

For ‘out of the gloom’ (as a famous commentator once said) of the on-field doldrums of chronic defeat and key-player injuries, the club has finally been able to give senior footy opportunities to our young up and comers.

And wowsers, are they something.

Jack Watts is probably a great bloke, but he’s also a walking endorsement for the risk involved with hoping for pick 1 above culture and integrity. And he was shut out of the game by a fourth gamer. Neilson again. Cale Hooker’s noogie is already a footnote in his football history.

Sam Durdin at times matched up with Hogan and at others with the McDonald and equipped himself well both defensively and in link-up play.

They both stood taller with the return of Robbie Tarrant. The man has the strength and timing of a jungle puma.

In fact, Melbourne’s tall forwards were ineffectual on the day. It was Garlett (particularly in the first half) and their troupe of midfield tête a claques (look it up) that gave us the most grief.

What was Scott’s solution to the Garlett conundrum? Easy. Another sub-10 gamer.

Declan Mountford can play back, forward or on the ball. He’s fit, as tough as a cat’s head and in the last two weeks has shown he has well and truly adapted to the speed of AFL football.

Garlett was not a factor once Mountford went back, but more than this Declan showed more poise when under high pressure in the defensive fifty than any of our more experienced campaigners. And he has a lateral ‘step’ that is a joy to behold. I say it every week: he must be re-signed. The thought of losing him to his home state of WA is not a contemplation I enjoy.

Happily, basking in the sweet satisfaction of a job well done and victory hard-earned will surely help ease the pangs of homesickness.

Because punchable heads aside (bugger, gave away the answer to the French exam) Melbourne’s midfield go pretty well. Oliver and Tyson in particular cracked in at stoppages with the sort of clean shaven gusto that would have had the MCC members golf-clapping like it was the final round at St. Andrews.

But instead of remembering his clearances and dodgy handballs, the image of Clayton Oliver I choose to store securely in my memory palace is that of him being chased and mauled to the earth by a rampaging Taylor Garner mid-way through the final term.

Garner. He has the stink-eyed glare of a street thug that I find endearing and reassuring. I like blokes that look like they want to win and don’t particularly care for their opposition counterparts; Garner has this in spades. More importantly, he has serious football ability.

Atley celebrated his 150th with run and carry and even more occasions of kamikaze dash than normal. He received from the glorious hands of Simpkin what should have been a goal fitting of a career that has moved from potential to adversity to consistency. He missed the goal, but we’re not worried about misses this week.

Cunnington too, was quieter than normal, but (like all Kingmakers) he does his best work in the shadows, beyond the comprehension of the surface scratching dilettantes. He was there when it mattered, feeding our outside runners with the poise and delay in offloading that set him apart from his direct opponent – Jack ‘I’m about to burst a vein’ Viney.

Shaun Higgins reaped the benefits of Swallow, Cunnington and Dumont’s grunt work. He is the silk tunic worn above the steel armour. With 28 disposals and a goal, he and Ryan Clarke provided the running link that we had to have to move the ball up-field against the wind that did its best to pin everyone in the Melbourne forward line during the final term.

And then there was the skipper. Captain Jack. If he’s fully fit, I’m a Ninja Warrior.

But the last quarter of Saturday’s game wasn’t about who was fit, or who was in form.

It was about who wanted it more.

Ziebell stood up and said:

‘I want it more. More than any of you mongrels.’

That’s what captains do. That’s what good footy teams do.

Because Saturday wasn’t perfect because everything went right. Like all things of greatest value, it had its share of fugliness overcome.

But it was a day of defiance. A day of identity. A day of Shinboners.

A day more suited to kite flyers and paper plane enthusiasts than key forwards.

Nobody told Ben Brown. Another four goals with two more dished off. Marking up the ground and in contested packs. One handed or two. Tackling, chasing, ginger curls that double as an exceedingly accurate substitute for a rooftop wind sock.

Re-sign him and pay him what he wants. And for Coleman’s sake, keep feeding him the football.

Majak has a role to play in that. On Saturday his game was book-ended by two iconic moments. In the first term he brought one of the games most discussed recent narratives, (that of Neville Jetta’s ability to play as an intercept defender against much taller opponents) to a conclusion more frequently seen in a documentary about natural selection on the savannah. It turns out, size does matter, and if only Jetta had seen Daw’s knee approaching his face he may have had time to ponder this fleeting thought before deep impact took place. It was a magnificent, authoritative mark…and it paled in comparison to the mark he took in the final three minutes of the game.

The final three minutes of the game. 180 seconds of pure North Melbourne nirvana.

How many moments can you fit into a perfect memory?

Close your eyes and remember:

Majak rising like an orca from the ocean to pluck a majestic, gutsy, unconditional mark in front of Gawn. Make no mistake, if Majak doesn’t take that Mark Gawn does. And the next kick sails into the open spaces of the Melbourne forward 50. Match saving.

Tarrant and Clarke not only tackling a Demon midfielder but frog-marching him fifteen metres closer to the try line before the whistle for a stoppage was blown. Brutal endeavour.

Hrovat’s shimmy and pass inside our forward fifty.

Jy Simpkin.

Jy Simpkin.

Jy Simpkin.

Earlier in the final term his mark of Brown’s shank was outrageous in its courage, balance and skill. To slot the following goal from forty meters out, facing directly into the line of the howling Telegraph was a thing of even greater magnificence.

And then there was his crowning moment: the final pass to Cunnington. Seriously, the cojones on this kid…

Simpkin’s composure and execution in a moment of utter turmoil made me ponder whether he may in fact be an extra-terrestrial. This man seems to have more fast-twitch muscle fibres than science can explain. He doesn’t change direction – he snaps direction like a lightning strike. The guy is taking advanced level popping while everyone else is stuck on the dosey-doe.

In a nano-second he took the ball, saw his chance to seal victory, shaped to shoot, saw Cunnington with the peripheral vision of a 3D printer, ‘popped’ a ninety degree swivel blast and chipped a lob wedge into the King Maker’s arms – all this with the steady astuteness of a renaissance artist.

It’s no wonder he faked the Go Dees defenders out of their boots. He faked me out of my boots and I was a many miles away standing on a table in Central Victoria.

The siren sounded and the match was over. But from that moment will grow a future more joyous than we perhaps can know.

For North’s last quarter was worth more than the four points it added to our yearly total. For a handful of joeys, it marked their first win in the royal blue and white. For all involved, it was the purest statement of integrity to those who dare question a club who if nothing else knows only how to claw and scrap and fight to the bitter end.

The last thirty minutes of football on Saturday was a microcosm of what it means to be North Melbourne, not just as a player – but as a member, a supporter, man, woman or child.

To stand and plant a flag in the ground even while the banner is blown back into your face, saying: ‘bugger ya’, we’re not giving in’.

Twenty two men stood up and forged another chapter in the North Melbourne legacy on the weekend. There were many thousands more standing behind them.

And so we roll again.

Collingwood at Etihad. Saturday night. They’re ok, but they’re not great. Mind you, if ever there was a time for the (newly discovered) elite Daniel Wells to feel a twinge in the old calf/foot/hammy/finger/eyebrow/shoulder/fingernail, this is it.

Take it easy, Daniel. No need to overdo it.

If he does play, it’s highly likely that he’ll be greeted by two old mates: Goldstein and Thomas. The veteran pair were best afield in a Werribee team that showed just as much character as their senior counterparts in a come-from-behind victory against Port Melbourne on Sunday. Waite is missing two and Preuss looked sore in the final term on the weekend. It’s possible that Cam Zurhaar could also get a look in after another head-turning performance and victory-sealing goal in the magoos. Or will Scott get all funky on us again and recall Nick Larkey for another crack at the big time?

Regardless of the selections made, get to Etihad early on Saturday, as Werribee and Collingwood are playing their VFL clash in a traditional curtain raiser time slot.

Which won’t leave much time for extra pre-game entertainment.

Sorry guys, I was going to suggest an 80s musical medley, but maybe we’ll have to leave Karma Chameleon for another time.

Who knows? Maybe Carl Dilena can work the phones and get Culture Club involved in future home games like Port Adelaide do with INXS? Just think – after the next (inevitable) heart breaking loss, we could stand together, scarves raised aloft, swaying back and forth in a poignant symbol of unity and strength as Do You Really Want To Hurt Me is blasted from the stadium speakers.

But I don’t want to think about that now.

This week is a week to once again celebrate who we are. We’re not part of the ‘cool gang’ – teams that have caught a whiff of mid table glory on the back of more high-end picks than their average tackle counts since 2005. We’re North Melbourne. And this is a week to indulge in the spoils of respect earned through victory, and the future of possibilities that it cultivates in our hearts and minds.

Another week to celebrate being us.

Shinboners.

Come on you Roo boys.