JoshDugan = Bambi II

That Michael Weyman statue in Moruya stirred something in me. Who knew a bronze rendering of an unattractive rugby league behemoth would speak of universal feelings and fiery passions?  It damn well stirred something in him too; did you see him go like a fucking bull at a gate to get first try in the opening minutes of last week’s game? He ran thirty metres! He looked like a moose! By the by, how the hell did I not know Weyman’s nickname was the Horse?? I found this out on the same day that I discovered there’s a Dulux paint colour called ‘Hog Bristle’. It’s the little things. It has to be, because the big things maul us to pieces. I wish his nickname had somehow been incorporated into his statue. Hooves, a mane, flared horsey nostrils, something.

So. I’ve been giving this commemorative statue issue some thought. So too have the Daily Tele. They’ve approached it from a slightly different angle, and arrived at a wildly different conclusion but, still. Nick Walshaw, I love you, you bogan. You are a top shelf sports writer. How’s this for a lead sentence: “A Nathan Hindmarsh statue would not be complete without a little bum crack showing.” Eels great Brett Kenny got involved. “You know that appearance Hindy has at the back end of games – exhausted, pants slipping down…mate, that’s him.”

The Tele also appears to have launched a campaign to give the idea traction. It’s called ‘Back the Crack’. They have, like, a logo and stuff.

I have no objection to this. Hindmarsh is a standup guy. Well, there was that time he called Michael Ennis a grub in a press conference last year, I didn’t much like that. It was unwarranted. Michael Ennis is a legend.  

Anyway, charming as this ‘Back the Crack’ business is, I like the idea of statues going up when players are still active and relevant. Plenty of time for retrospection later.  

This brings me to Josh Dugan. I think he warrants some kind of statue. Just because he’s got mad game, really. And he re-signed with the Raiders for another two years and gave playing alongside Terry Campese as one of his key reasons for staying. BALLER! He doesn’t have an animal alias, at least not in the public imagination. He does in mine, and he’s not the only one. Plenty of those rangy backs remind me of Dobermans, for example. Dobermans are fast and enjoy chasing people.

I’m thinking an interpretive rather than literal rendering could be the go – something capturing that ineffable essence – here are some of my ideas. Well, one idea, really – Dugan as deer. Behold!





Capital Punishment in Canberra.

Last night? ROUGH.

No point raking over the ashes and demanding retributive justice and probing independent inquiries. Been there done that BOUGHT THE FUCKING JERSEY.

No. The whole affair can be illustrated by two things. 1. The traumatised subtext of girl-J-bo’s text messages (I have selected just four but there were A LOT. Girl was in a lot of pain. Public pain.) And, 2. Laurie Daly’s shell-shocked post-commentary reaction.

1.

“I’m at the pub with a bunch of nth qld fans. I have ordered a BLT but I am not hungry anymore and at the very least it’s going to be embarrassing to eat juicy fatty pig while we loooooooose”

“I’m so not going to be able to eat that thing when it arrives. I’m dreading the beep of the bistro buzzer.”

“Well, I guess it’s fitting that I ended up with tomato sauce all over myself.”

“Waaaaaaah…Why oh why am I moving back there…….”

2.

By game’s end Laurie Daly was babbling and bereft. Soon after, when asked where to now for the Raiders or some such bullshit question he was rendered speechless and just… gaped into the camera with a pinched, wincing look. When he gathered himself pretty much all he could offer was the suggestion that Dave Furner enlist a psychologist. I’m with Laurie. The schizoid tendencies of the Raiders are completely out of control. Mental disintegration is afoot. Help is needed. Shit is dire. And that’s about all I’ve got to say about that.

Now. For reasons that are not entirely clear to me now, mid-season, I’m going overseas for five weeks, starting this Thursday. This means that I am taking the Raiders Cowboys game with me, into the fucking Himalayas, as my freshest rawest football memory, so help me God (or Buddha. Ganesh. Somebody! Anybody??) I’m taking my Raiders scarf, acrylic be damned. Maybe if the mood strikes me I’ll offer up some sort of high altitude agnostic prayer on their behalf. Yeh. And come home in May to find them riding high on the ladder and, like, completing sets and offloading and doing all that really fancy specialist shit. IMAGINE.