FeNaClNG 2026

Thanks Minesy!

The 2026 FeNaClNG Squash Tournament had 104 players representing 20 Clubs. The clubs from all over the state were Blue Gum, Broome, Bunbury, Busselton, Cambridge, Dampier, Eastern Goldfields, Exmouth, Geraldton, Karratha, Katanning, Leschenault, Mandurah, Manjimup, Mirrabooka, Narrogin, Port Hedland, Vic Park and Wickham. We had 4 grades: 5 Teams in A grade, 8 Teams in B grade, 8 Teams in C Grade and 5 Teams in D Grade. B and C grade were both full which is amazing. The numbers increased compared to last year with 93 players last year. It was amazing to see Exmouth send 4 players up this year, who certainly got into the spirit of the comp on the Sunday night. More on that later...

Dampier Squash Club ran the event with significant input from many members before, during and after the tournament. Events like this rely on volunteers. Key people working behind the scenes included Daniel Mines (President/Tournament Coordinator), Simon Keogh (Club Captain), Matt Faux (Treasurer), Kodie Drysdale (Secretary), Xana Erwich (Committee Member) and Cal Heath (former President). The club is fortunate to have the support of so many members, whose efforts help make this tournament what it is.

This year, after getting Dean Williams to attend last year, we decided to keep going with that theme and we got an original Dampier Legend to come and be a special guest of the tournament. Bob Jackson was the original Dampier Squash Club President, and also Club Champion for multiple years. He built the courts from one court to two, and then from two to three. He was also President of multiple other Dampier sporting clubs throughout his time in Dampier. An absolute legend. It was SO GOOD to have him back around the club seeing that the club he built is still prospering. 

Our List of Sponsors include Dampier Mermaid Hotel, AOK Caravan Park, Rio Tinto, Sodexo Penny Palms, Bay Village, The City of Karratha, Dampier Community Association, The Racquet Shop, Precision Doors, Coates Hire and Murti Murti group Karratha.

Now onto the winners!

• A Grade: Team “Old Fogies” - Geoff Watters, Zoe Petrovansky, Dwayne Simons, Jeremy Church
• B Grade: Team “Dampier” - Silas Briskey, Guy Langdon, Chaunce Yap, Simon Keogh
• C Grade: Team “Wickham” - Robert Edney, Steve Edney, Peter Walsham, Leigh Trost
• D Grade: Team “The International Framers” - Mitchel Wells, Carolyn Temple, Maree Garland, Serena Richardson

Player of the Tournament this year, winning a 3-night accommodation voucher for next year's tournament, was Adam Tooby from Broome Squash Club. Unfortunately for Adam, the number 3 player in his team injured himself in the warm-up in the first round and wasn’t able to play any more games.  Since it was the number 3 and Adam was the number 4, Adam had to play both positions all weekend as no one else in the team could play down. Which meant 8 matches for Adam over the weekend. He ran them all out and put in a major effort, and to top this off he was called on for his doctor’s opinion when we had another player injure themselves late on Sunday afternoon. This is a much-deserved reward for Adam and we can’t wait to have him back next year.

Another fantastic year for the tournament with lots of fun being had both on and off the courts. The Exmouth crew enhanced the table tennis tournament this year, setting the decks up on the court for the Sunday night table tennis tournament which bought some epic vibes with 30 odd people up top dancing, while the serious table tennis games were being played down below. Once again Cal Heath reigned supreme as part of the winning team over Dampier local G-Bus in an epic final.

Can't wait to do it all again next year!

Minesy (Daniel Mines)

*CONTAINS EXPLICIT LANGUAGE*

Dampier Squash Club – The Life of a Fenacle Squashy

On the first weekend in August, when the south is wet and cold,
A migration starts for Dampier—a tradition thirty-six years old.
Five, ten, twenty hours behind the wheel, across this bloody state,
For fierce squash, warm weather—and a beer beside your mate.

They come in buses, caravans, four-wheel drives and vans,
With racquets, swags and Eskies—and some fairly shaky plans.
They pitch their tents around the courts and claim a patch of ground,
Before the swags are even rolled, the first beers have gone down.

This isn’t just a tournament—it’s Fenacle, my friend,
Where old rivalries resume and lifelong friendships blend.
Clubs from distant corners come to battle for the crown,
And for one weekend every year, they take over this little town.

A Fenacle Squashy’s different—not entirely normal stock;
They’ll play 13 games of brutal squash, then party round the clock.
They strap their knees and ankles, rub Deep Heat everywhere,
Then step onto the court convinced they’ve still got flair.

Some warm up like professionals, with lunges smooth and neat;
Some warm up by the fire pit, with a cold beer at their feet.
Some arrive with game plans and a coach who knows the score;
Some ask, “Who am I playing?” as they stagger through the door.

The Dampier courts are ready and the teams are dressed with pride,
In matching shirts stretched tighter than the makers specified.
They swagger in like athletes, looking dangerous and fit—
Then bend to tie a shoelace and can’t straighten up for a shit.

There’s A Grade at the top end—all graceful, quick and slick;
Their drives run tight, their boasts roll flat, their drops all find the nick.
Then somewhere down the rankings, where talent’s slightly thin,
We celebrate a rally if we don’t immediately hit the tin.

We boast when we should drive it and drive when we should boast,
We murder every easy shot and somehow win the most.
We blame the court, the lights, the ball, the marker and the breeze—
Anything except our fitness, technique, drinking or dodgy knees.

“Let, please!” shouts the striker. “No let!” comes the reply,
Then twenty experts behind the glass start explaining exactly why.
Neil’ stands firm—or tries—then makes the safest call:
“Let’s play a let and carry on. I didn’t see the ball.”

At nine-all in the fifth, your legs are lead, your face is turning red,
Your captain yells, “Just keep it tight!”—no shit, mate. Thanks, dickhead.
You swing—it clips the racquet frame, then dribbles in the nick,
You turn and nod: “Yep, just as planned”—handcrafted that little trick.

You win and raise your racquet like a champion of the sport;
Your opponent mutters, “Lucky prick,” while stumbling off the court.
You shake their hand respectfully and tell them, “Great match, mate,”
Then race outside to tell your team how you absolutely dominate.

The squash is fast and furious, the rivalries run deep;
Every point is life or death—until the lamb and charcoal meet.
An incredible smell rolls through the gallery and drifts across the court,
And suddenly half the crowd has lost all interest in the sport.

There’s crayfish on the barbecue, whole fish across the grill,
A beast turning slowly on the spit—a smell that could break your will.
The final might be nine-all, with the title on the line,
But someone’s carving up the roast—and half the crowd’s in line.

Local caught fish comes around piping hot, straight from the barbecue plate,
With oil running down your forearm—but it’s far too good to wait.
A crumbed morsel in one hand, beer in the other, you’re far too busy to call out—
Till a dodgy let brings “BULLSHIT!” through a mouthful of coral trout.

But when the final rally ends, don’t think the fight is done;
The squash was just the curtain-raiser—the real contest has begun.
The ping-pong table’s wheeled out and the paddles gripped in hand,
As Fenacle’s fiercest athletes gather round to make their stand.

They smash, they spin, they sledge each other—friendship cast aside;
Because squash may win the tournament, but ping-pong settles pride.
A bloke who lost all his squash matches in seventeen minutes straight
Now guards that bloody table like the country’s Head of State.

There’s controversy over edges, nets and whether serves were fair;
Kane’s taking warm-up swings and clearly needs more air.
Silas demands a replay; Simon disputes the score—
Boys its social bloody ping-pong, not fucken World War 4?

Then it’s back around the fire pit beneath the Pilbara sky,
With cold beers, songs and stories—and the occasional outright lie.
Every rally gets much longer, every winner twice as slick,
And every ball that struck the tin becomes a perfect nick.

By beer four, you won in five; by beer six, you won in three;
By beer eight, the state selectors were apparently there to see.
By midnight, you’re unbeaten and your boasts were world-class shots—
Despite the score sheet showing that you lost the bloody lot.

We sing, we dance, we carry on until the stars are gone,
As Saturday turns to Sunday and Sunday staggers on.
The sensible have gone to bed; the Fenacle crowd remains,
Singing songs nobody knows and getting none of the words the same.

Paula’s running on the tables while Grainy stacks them high,
Richo’s hugging Ryan—neither one remembers why.
Bridgey’s firing up the crowd; Lauren’s seized the mic,
She’s belting them out like a pro—but the backing choir is shite.

Jake and Holly are nodding off in their chair, chins against their chests,
The only two at Fenacle with any bloody sense.
Neil is into his fourth cask and swears he’s doing fine—
He stopped using cups at number three; as they only waste his time.

By the early hours of Monday, voices cracked and bodies sore,
There are sleeping bags abandoned and lost belongings galore.
Champions guard their trophies, the rest protect their pride,
G-Bus is in the wrong swag with his shoes still on outside.

Then lowly camp is folded, every bus and caravan packed;
The homebound convoys start along the unforgiving tracks.
Five, ten, twenty hours to plan how next year will be won—
While swearing that your fitness work begins when you get home.

But Fenacle isn’t measured by the matches lost or won;
It’s thirty-six years of friendships, rivalries and fun.
It’s the teams that make the trip each year, the old mates who return,
For the crack of ball against the wall—and cold beers by the burn.

So raise your glass to Fenacle, to every club and crew;
To the legends who began it and the next generation too.
May your drives stay tight, your beer stay cold, your camp chair not collapse—
And may your mate delete the videos of your late-night dancing acts.

Here’s to our game of squash, questionable calls and every hard-fought crown;
To the clubs who cross the bloody state and take over our town.
Squash might bring us all to Dampier – But it’s the people that keep us coming back!

Cal Heath - 2026