Much to the disgust of my lovely editor, I was right. Unfortunately for the balance of power in Casa Del Tribune, I was right about something that didn’t matter to her, but I’m still doing the “Whose house? Juzzy’s house!” dance at regular intervals, while rubbing the sports pages of various alleged newspapers against my groin.

Turns out I have more influence in the sporting world than I or anyone else had previously thought, because I finished last month’s column with the astoundingly accurate words “Brendon Fevola. That is all” and the Lions took it as an instruction. So hooray for me and ten bucks if you can guess whose name’s going into a similar sentence this month.

Having thought about that for a few seconds, I’ve decided not to, because the number of sporting people who should have “That is all” appended to their names could fill the entire magazine and there’s far too much good stuff on the other pages to let that happen. Except for Luke’s bullshit about Oasis being good and grunge being shit, which completely ignores the rise of the almighty Tool and QOTSA et al in the 90s; that, you can line the budgie’s cage with.

So instead of just giving you a list of people who should fuck off and work in a service station or get a chat show axed three weeks in (see?? More prophesy!!) I thought I’d concentrate on someone in whose ears “That is all” will be ringing for a while. Yes, it’s time for my two cents (rounded down to nothing unless you’re paying by card) worth on Ricky Nixon.

There’s a lot to be disgusted about when you ponder all that’s happened around the Teenage Girl Who Can’t Be Named For Legal Reasons. In days past, I would channel my disgust about various things into violence, threats of violence, imaginary violence and verbal confrontations with self-serve checkouts and Metcard machines. Recently, however, I discovered that anger is only one of the many feelings with which I, as a vaguely sentient human, have been blessed.

Right now though, those deeper emotions are far better utilised on Christchurch, Queensland, Libya, Egypt and Bahrain. So with the whole dikileaks thing, I’m just going to take the piss.

It seems that all famous people, particularly those in the sporting field, are handed a set of instructions that outlines what they are to do and how they are to behave when caught doing a Bad Thing. Here are a few examples from the “So, you’ve been caught Rooting Around/Using Recreational and/or Performance Enhancing Drugs/Bashing Someone/In The Presence Of A Pack-Rape/Pissing On A Police Station Wall” playbook.

The first step is so important that it must become not just instinctive, but reflexive: Denial at all costs, no matter how implausible the denial and how much evidence it stands against.

Shane Warne did not, at first, take a banned substance at all. Brendon Fevola did not, at first, in any way get physical with a barman in Ireland. Someone spiked an Olympian’s drink or food or they had a cold or it was prescribed to them in error by a physio. Ricky Nixon was, at first, not over .05 when he didn’t collide with that tram. Tottie Goldsmith’s companions all figured that the best place to store all their drugs was in the handbag of their famous friend. St Kilda players had never, at first, been photographed naked.

From the denial springs all that follows: the modified denials, the denials of the denials, the slightly-mismatched denials from well-meaning friends family and agents and the “I was taken out of context when I said ‘black c__t/fat whore”. The blame will usually follow: of the victim, of society, of the public and of course the media for reporting bad things when they’re only there to regurgitate press releases. Then will come the claims of victimhood: I have an addiction to a substance or to sex, women are always chasing me, it’s just not fair that I’m in the spotlight right at the moment, the spotlight is morally reprehensible and should just fuck off - except when I want it shining its glorious light upon me.

The next step is the rationalisations: Ricky Nixon has done well at these lately, if by “doing well” you mean sounding like someone who doesn’t know the difference between Making An Excuse and Fuck Me But These Orange Pills Are Brilliant And Get That Spider Off My Shoulder.

“I was responding to a call for help” is up there with Berlusconi’s “I didn’t pay the underage prostitute for sex, I merely gave her some money as a spontaneous gift”. Admitting to “inappropriate dealings” while denying having sexual relations of any kind when there are photos of him in her hotel room in his underpants is taking rationalisation to a level not seen since “Whoops, sorry, I fell over and my dick went in your wife”.

What’s all this got to do with sport? A lot, actually. We go to the games and we watch the telecasts and we buy the newspapers and we buy the products that these troglodytes endorse. We validate ourselves when they achieve and we alternately gloat and weep when they fail. We actually care when they indulge in the only kind of behaviour they know and we somehow think all of this is important.

Props to you, St Kilda girl, you have shone a light where lights are rarely shone and the cockroaches are scurrying. But you haven’t just shone a light, you’ve moved the fridge and they’ve got nowhere left to hide.

Maybe there’s a chance, just a tiny chance, that now people are going to start to really think about women’s place in AFL. In a few more badly handled scandals time we might even begin to think about considering the possibility of making a plan to do something about it. One day. Maybe.

And now, because I just can’t help it and I just keep hoping: Andrew Demtriou. That is all.

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