THEY say the Queen's Birthday match between Melbourne and Collingwood contains within it a century of class rivalry. Ruling-class Melbourne against downtrodden, battling, working-class Collingwood. Well, that's just plain wrong. Melbourne has about as many marbles as the English aristocracy. And while the Demons have been fiddling, the Pies have done whatever it takes to pinch those marbles. This Monday isn't traditional class warfare: it's nothing more than the ruling class against the aspirational ruling class. It's the club of those who sold their shares for a good price, against those who borrowed to buy them.

The real class warfare was last Saturday afternoon: Hawthorn v the Bulldogs. This is the new rivalry. East v west. Bluestone v weatherboard. Ivy v choko vine. Leaf-blower v slicer, dicer and julienner. Beamer v Torana.

As important Victorian cricket administrator K. Carroll, eastern suburbs resident and Hawks supporter (who feels naked if he isn't wearing a club tie) once told me, chaps from the leafy suburbs rarely cross the Yarra, except maybe to attend the Varsity. They shake their head at the very idea of the western suburbs.

Well, plenty of fans from the leafy suburbs were faced with a dilemma on Saturday. The match from Launceston was only being broadcast on Foxtel.

Now things are tougher in Kew and Camberwell and Surrey Hills these days. Since the bank's call on the margin loan, the Foxtel subscription has had to go. These fans had to find pubs. Something of a task out that way. Their forebears may have been stalwart citizens but in their sobriety and restraint, they forgot to build pubs among the plane trees. They never understood their worth.

So they had to brave the border crossing. In their droves, the Hawthorn fans came. Mostly blokes. Having their passports checked at the Yarra. Across the bridges and into what K. Carroll calls the People's Republic of Fitzroy.

I was standing in the Rose Hotel, the sort of spirited place those in the western suburbs would love, as they arrived. Young blokes with middle names like Cuthbertson and Huntley who'd been sent to schools held together by the twin virtues of Gilbert and Sullivan. Blokes who'd had a childhood of premierships. Confident blokes who'd grown up knowing that Chris Mew and Chris Langford held the world together.

Stylish blokes, too. With more money than sense. (Why would you buy jeans that were already worn out?) Blokes who'd hidden their floppy college cut under a wad of hair gel. Blokes with straight teeth.

One wore a 1979 AC/DC Highway To Hell World Tour T-shirt he'd probably paid a lazy Mawson for at a Retro funkhouse in Prahran. (There was a group of Doggies lads near the front door who could have gone home and found theirs in Mum's back shed in Spotswood.)

The Hawks fans were very confident. Beer-in-hand. Nine-and-zip. Happy to be playing in the footy colony the club has acquired. Plant a flag in Tasmania and call it yours. Happy to see Jeff Kennett sending Old Melbourne off to the Gold Coast, in an attempt to secure the Yarraside Range Rover set. I can't remember whether it was Lenin or Doug Hawkins who wrote that footy imperialism was the highest stage of capitalism.

In the sunny conditions, the game was a cracker. Open footy. The Dogs looking to keep possession. Keeping pressure on the Mayblooms' midfield.

The barman, in a Hawks sleeveless, kept the beers (and the red wines) up to the invaders. The Hawks had made the joint theirs. They were boisterously certain; defeat wasn't even contemplated. Buddy was the greatest things since negative gearing.

They paid particular attention to that villain, Akermanis. And to Robert Murphy, whom they resented. When the skinny centre half-forward was beaten in a contest, one bloke yelled: "Put that in your column, smart-boy." Ah, the anti-intellectualism of the money man.

Aka was enjoying the wide open spaces. He had a few mates: Cooney, Griffen, Gilbee. The signs were good. Not that the Hawks fans had noticed. They cheered Buddy. "Buddy, Buddy: it's all about Buddy," one bloke yelled.

But they failed to acknowledge that Buddy was cheating; running forward of the ball to be the only player inside 50 as if he were still in the under 14s. And running in to score cheap goals.

The Dogs had no cheats. Mitch Hahn, who would have been a blacksmith in another world, was honest. As was Brian Lake.

The contest was pretty physical, such was the attack on the footy. When Murphy drove his body into Xavier Ellis, the bar erupted. Outrage. A grammar boy was down.

As the bump was replayed, a voice came from the pack: "I hope you like Rousseau, Murphy. Because you'll be reading him for six weeks."

It got three votes for the comment of the afternoon. But I was left pondering what a coffee-bean (futures) trader from Glenferrie would know about Rousseau.

I was more confident about the outcome: the Dogs dominated the second quarter and could well have been further in front.

It was time for Scraggers fans to find voice. They applauded every Aka moment after half-time, knowing the foundation was in place for victory. It was only straight kicking that kept Hawthorn in it.

Hawks fans turned on their own inexperienced players. One of the few highlights for them was Brad Johnson's stagger. "Johnno's fainted. Johnno's fainted," they scoffed.

The unfashionable Dogs just kept running. All the way to a terrific win. They surprised all but their own. This is the new rivalry.

As Aka smiled his way off, I was reminded of Rousseau. It was the French thinker who said: "Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains."

If Murph reads that passage out to him this week, Aka will work it into every interview for the rest of the season.

Because Aka reckons he's broken them.