A dead rubber on paper—but don’t tell that to the blokes out there still playing for pride, bragging rights, and the sacred post-match storytelling at the bar.
Wanneroo arrived as Premiers, top spot already secured, while Bassendean stood safe in sixth—too high to fall, too low to rise. The pressure was off…
Griffen nearly committed a public undressing of Arthur, winning by 21, Toster celebrated his win over Stokes while Strachany fell to Anderson by six.
And then—Big Butch.
Pocketing a home point and launching himself to the top of the skipper ladder, sealing the season with authority. A performance worthy of applause, admiration, and at least one free beer.
Wanneroo now march confidently into White, while Bassendean dust themselves off, regroup, and prepare to have another crack at Blue next season.

For Cambridge, the final whistle couldn’t come soon enough. This was a season that felt like trying to play bowls on the Arnold’s new bowling green—nothing quite going to plan from the very first end.
Ellenbrook, however, had everything to play for—and they delivered.
Rollin Joe rolled through Buckley by 11, Moore matched the margin against Easom, and Aaron “hot hands” Cole lived up to the nickname, gliding past Hawkes by four.
Parker provided a lone bright spark for the Knights, claiming a point over Ball—something to take into the off-season, along with a well-earned thirst.
Ellenbrook’s 7 points proved crucial—without them, the ladder would’ve twisted into chaos and Sorrento might’ve slipped past. Instead, Ellenbrook live to fight another day… though their path is anything but easy, with a survival clash looming against the 2v3 victor in 2 Red.

This was a battle where destiny had already packed its bags and booked an early flight home. Still, they showed up, as they always do.
Leyland quietly slipped past Murray by four, Elmer edged by 3, and Big Stick nudged past Big Lance by two—proving once again that in bowls, size matters… but only in nicknames.
Yet looming large over it all was Wicks who squeezed Orchard dry, 33–9, extracting every last drop and then asking for pulp. It was a performance so ruthless it should’ve come with a warning label and earned them the aggregate and something to celebrate.
Morley now turn their eyes nervously toward the looming challenge—North Beach or Doubleview—while Sorrento’s time in Blue has come to an end. A proud club feeling the ripple effects of Premier League departures, now retreating to regroup, reload, and no doubt return with a vengeance (and possibly a few new recruits who “just moved into the area last week”.

In the Kingdom known as the Mounting Yard, two old rivals did battle - Mount Lawley, the daring underdogs, and Quinns, the noble Crays on the cusp of glory.
The stakes? Promotion to the land of White—where legends are made, beers taste colder, and losses are blamed on “just a tricky green.”
Quinns entered the arena with fate gently in their favour. Win, or lose… but not too badly. Meanwhile, Mount Lawley stood at the gates with a far more heroic task - 8 points or 7 - but make it very impressive.”
And so the battle began.
Munnelly—the Irish thoroughbred—mane flowing, hooves thundering , dismantling the northern warrior known only as “The Mullet.” By day’s end, the Mullet had been trimmed… by 18 shots. A savage haircut!
Then came Moose Jones—part man, part folklore, who calmly handled the dangerous Smith rink. Like a wizard, he waved his wand and reminded all in attendance why his name is etched in the bowls history books and some asking the question- how is he still this good?!.
In another corner of the battlefield, Ingram—looking every bit “One millionnnnnnn dollarssssssss”—casually pocketed a 7-shot victory over Ferris and with a little finger to his lips, let out a mighty hua huahahaha, hua hahahaha, hua hahahah.
But ah… the drama.
Enter Guy “Lisa” Herriot—locked in a duel so tight it could’ve been sponsored by Sparms. Standing three down on the mat… the crowd held their breath. He delivered his last bowl…and drew second shot. Absolute pandemonium ensued. Grown men reached for calculators like scholars decoding ancient texts. Buttons were pressed with the urgency of a man trying to exit the dodgy website before their wife comes in.
Carry the one… divide by hope… multiply by absolute prayers…
And then, on a lonely, lipstick-stained serviette served up by Gazebo Glasson, the final numbers appeared.
Mount Lawley.
By 0.1%.
A photo finish. An umpires call. A serve at the Aussie open which catches the slightest bit of chalk.
And just like that, the Mounters ascended to White—stunned, elated, and probably asking each other, “Wait… did we actually get up?”
They celebrated long into the night, once the shock wore off and the maths was triple-checked by someone’s mate who “reckons he’s good with numbers.”
As for Quinns…They are left to wonder “what if?”
Where was that one extra bowl? That one extra touch? That one less absolute shocker rolled two ends earlier?
Alas… the bowls gods giveth, and the bowls gods taketh away.
And on this day, they gave Mount Lawley just enough and long into the evening, a cry was heard throughout the streets of Mount Lawley that travelled through the jacaranda trees, We’re going to white!
By the finest thread ever spun in sporting folklore.

Warwick closed their chapter with a win—solid, respectable… but with a whisper of “what could have been?” After sitting atop the throne for much of the early season, their story became one of near-misses and “if onlys.”
Yanchep, meanwhile, had already secured their golden ticket to White, despite an away record shakier than a jittery third measuring for shot. Their home fortress—and a couple of late on the road conquests—proved enough to carry them upward.
Loran handled Dix by seven, Hinge delivered a statement win over the (then) top skip by a brutal 18, and Wright stormed home with an 11-shot win over Hartzer to leapfrog into second on the skipper standings with a well-timed statistical ambush.
Turua snuck past Yabbie for a cheeky away point to take back up north.
A tremendous first season in the division for Yanchep, who now march into White with confidence, momentum, and probably a few blokes saying, “We’ll be right.”