Tuesday, 20 September 2011

Muscular Menace...Luke Lewis

A hot and savage wind roared through my house yesterday and dislodged three Todd Carney pictures I had hanging in the kitchen. I found two on the floor and one in my cats' water dish. Coincidence? Or something more suggestive, perhaps -  the terrible truth that perhaps Toddy lacks moral substance and fortitude? I mean, I have pictures of several others - Dugan, and Joel Monaghan, and Braith Anasta with his brain about to leak out of his face - and they didn't blow down at the slightest hint of a change in the weather, did they*?

*Upon closer inspection and a degree of overnight reflection, that was well out of order. Forgive me my vague air of futility, Toddy, and go forth on your journey toward a higher realm. It's just...it can get tiring, this business of supporting you. Lonely. too. *Reassembles public face*...  Don't mind me and my psychic strain.

So. Moving right along, Luke Lewis, that big blonde behemoth, said the other day that he would welcome Toddy "with open arms". So would I, Luke, so would I.

I can't be sure but I assume he was talking about the possibility of Toddy going to the Panthers. Sweet baby Jesus. Wouldn't that be something. I don't think I much like the idea. I can't imagine Gus Gould would either, thankfully. No, Penrith is no place for the likes of Toddy. It's a fucking no-man's land out there; a veritable wasteland - even by my not-exactly-lofty standards. One doesn't want to be too much of a cultural chauvinist but, honestly, Penrith is no place for a ressurection. It's a place for Everlast athletic gear and corned beef sandwiches and enormous leagues clubs that warrant their own postcodes. The best thing for Toddy to do now is to get aboard the Cronulla train and ride it hard, all stops to redemption. YES. DO THAT.

Still, what a lovely sentiment from Luke Lewis. Further proof that men who bite their beer bottles open are far more capable of warm hearted sentiment than your garden-variety quiche eating nancy.

Luke Lewis has that disconcerting blend of menace and charm about him. It's indefinable, which makes it all the more arresting. Alls I can say is that he carries a perpetual aura of faintly muscular menace. I think it's hotter than a Saigon summer, but you're welcome to draw your own conclusions.

Also, I think I once described him on here as the type of man who would spend his downtime sprawled on patio furniture with one nut hanging out of his shorts. Or did I just think that? I can't be sure; such is the blurring of the lines. Anyway as it happens he has a very well dressed and stylish wife. She was my pick for best dressed at the Dally M's. That's right, Jodi Gordon, not you - you heard. Inexpicably, there is no photo of her from this year. Last year, yes. Close enough.

He looked both sun scorched and sweetly absurd in his suit - show me a footballer who doesn't - but she was lovely and languid and cool as a cold drink in a tall glass on a hot day. Despite this, I still stand by my earlier assertion in regards to her husband, and the vivid image I conjured up for myself - oddly pleasing to my mind's nasty eye.

Wait, what? I intended this to be a retrospective look at Toddy's time at the Roosters, what is this westerly direction I have veered in and why do I kind of like it out here? L'Obscuritee! Christ. Ima stay here among the weed strewn backblocks until I sufficiently pull myself together enough to return for that Roosters retrospective, although to what end one can now only shudder to imagine.........

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