The Greek Goddess, Artemis, the most fearsome hunter of them all, roaming, rampaging, stalking her prey. Shortness of breath for a foe, rally upon rally from side to side, the darkness of the underworld gesticulating, the art of a miss did send Persephone to the depths of winter.

Hee-haw, hee-haw, the saw did cut by one. As time did pass, hee-haw, hee-haw, a mass did see with glee the free to shackle. O, hee-haw, hee-haw, the time has come to hackle and heckle the speckled cinder bypassing the once great. The reams - hee-haw, hee-haw – did seem to gleam with ever-expanding vacuity – hee-haw, hee-haw.

 An Agastopia within a bibbling Adynamia beneath the Apricity set in stone the tone whereby these wearied distrusting defensive guardians had their cerebral fortitude tested beyond the uniformity of armourised equalities.

The striated muscle of swing and seam working a parallel universe paying deference to humidities arc and side-splitting transmutations on many a tufts verdure foliage. Having arrested and gaoled three rogue, nomadic wanderers dangling outside off-stump amid the morning session, the second session’s assembly commanded a bisser . . . For which it duly generated. Another quad, rip it up swing and seam, strip a nerve wrecked fibrous stream’s dignity.

 Imagine Brendan McCullum if he were a general in the British army back in World War two. It wouldn’t be bazball, more bazwar. The hell with the consequences of his approach and decisions. All out attack in war. If it’s good enough on the Cricket fields of the world, it’s good enough on the shell holed fields of western France. Three hundred thousand men standing on the beaches awaiting evacuation, and, yep, you guessed it, general drivel decides to order the men off the beach and fight the German’s well stocked heavy artillery with the British soldiers few remaining poorly loaded pop guns. Hey, you’ve got to lose some wars to win other wars, never mind World War two spiraling down the drain for the allies, attack is where it is at. And never mind the chance to evacuate and draw this battle of the war and live to fight another day. Oh no, that is not his way. No need to be flexible and adjust to the circumstances offered up in this moment. Simply plough on and blame anyone and everyone for the carnage his egotistical mind has conjured up. Alack, alack, alack, it’s attack, attack, attack. Curse the flack, the media, the public, they are oh so slack minded. For he doth not his cap to the paying seat warmers . . . And particularly not defense. Oh sure, that war machine may overrun some meagre colonial outpost yet when the Germans come along with their rigid eyed malevolence, pop goes the serum of substance. An approach imagined and an approach better off consigned to the sewer.

Melbourne v Parramatta - Two things we learnt. 

The hatter is in the huyzen 

Ryan Papenhuyzen is mad. Ryan Papenhuyzen is insane. Ryan Papenhuyzen is utterly bonkers. To recap: Ryan Papenhuyzen is more mental than the mad hatter himself. Watch eighty minutes of Papenhuyzen plying his trade and you see a madman twisting and contorting his body as he smashes himself yet again into three defenders. Such a hammering does he take the lad might like to find himself a woman very soon, for if he keeps soaking this punishment up for another couple of years, he will be not more than a busted flush on so many different levels. He sure will not be the Fonz in the front of a mirror going “Heyyyy”. Brilliant he may be. A try scoring messiah he is. And a consummate team man always at hand to aide his forwards on their mission to escape their own half he is. But an indestructible object he will not be for all eternity. His being may be malleable enough at this young stage of his career but keep this up and eventually limbs may be torn asunder and scattered upon the many territories of NRL stadiums. 

A sickly height 

With four minutes of the match to play and the scores level at twelve a piece, Parramatta put a high kick up, landing some twenty metres from the Storm’s goal line on their right edge. Or, at least, it would have landed had Parramatta winger Maika Sivo not outjumped all and sundry, caught said shiny little diamond and sprinted twenty metres to dive over and score the match winning try. And what did we learn from this? Well, maybe, that one of those sundry, George Jennings, may like to take Van Halen’s advice and jump instead of keeping his feet firmly planted to Terra Firma. Jennings may be wise to change his accent to ascent and climb the nodes of rare air and contest this heightened malaise of altitude sickness. Even if Jennings drops the pill, he has made it less likely for Sivo to have his way with the encounter. And one of Jennings teammates might then have been able to tidy the loose ball up and save the day – Or in this case, night. He didn’t, they couldn’t, Sivo made a star of himself.

So, Brad Fitler believes Jai Arrow was being disrespectful to an injured James Tedesco, who had been knocked senseless by an unintended knee to the head from an opposing player, when attempting to pull Tedesco off the ground. Steady on there, Brad. Back the emotional blame game truck up. We all get that you lost the match, and the series and emotions can sometime boil over, ergo, possibly clouding judgement. But let us hear from Arrow first. It is entirely feasible he did not realise the New South Wales fullback was concussed. He may have legitimately thought Tedesco was staying down, playing for a penalty. After all, many a foe has tried to get one over many a match official this past hundred years. The Hundred years war between Britain and France is not the only hundred years war, you know. Though, unlike the one in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, this is a war that may rage for an eternity. Which suggest that maybe, just maybe, we can give Arrow a shot at the benefit of the doubt. Now, none of this is to say that a player’s health should not be utmost in the minds of all. Of course it should. It is safe to say, though, accidents occur and sometimes, with more than one performer in the tackle, there will be contestants unaware when an injury may have befallen a participant. Perhaps now is the time for Fitler and his staff to concern their selves with the physical and mental wellbeing of James Tedesco, doing all in their power - As no doubt they will be – to nurse one of the game’s great players back to health instead of picking an unnecessary fight out of the vessel of sour grapes. Because we all know that Fitler is a decent man. Surely there is no need to let a loss change that reality.