Matt Elliot - Vale.

Does the lingering image of Matt Elliot pretending to hang himself on his own tie in a press conference now assume a new and arresting significance and evoke a sad poignancy for you?

It does for me. And since I am nothing if not dictatorial - why else would you have a blog -  it damn well should for you too. I have a sour taste in my mouth, which is in itself significant because, in the words of Sammi from Jersey Shore, "I'm the sweetest bitch you'll ever meet".


I find this aspect of the game - the cut-throat culling of coaches, seemingly at the speed of light -  to be far more unseemly than any of the off-field incidents and after-dark indiscretions that are routinely branded as being the number one blight on the modern game. Make no mistake, I'm no fan of the Anthony Watts, Junior Vaivai or Robert Lui-style 'indiscretion', but the rest of it? Urinating up a shopfront window, are you kidding me? Who among us hasn't, in some fashion or another?

Looking back through my notebooks to see if I had anything written about Matt Elliot that might prove some (nonexistent) prophetic powers on my part I found only one undated entry, if you can call four words an entry: 

                             Matt Elliot = bone dry.  


And isn't he just?

I would also add that he is - was - the most coherent coaching voice in the NRL.

The fact that he acheived this feat while being lucid and zen and and droll and deadpan and very good looking all at the same time speaks volumes and goes a long way toward explaining why I hitherto had only four words written about him. Because, really, how can words pin down or flesh out the elusive essence of such an enigmatic original?

Matt Elliot. Sometimes puzzling, frequently halarious, always entertaining and eternally, intrinsically classy.

P.S. See you at the Raiders in 2014. Please?