It's All About Honesty, Babes

"Wow, that's the biggest mix bowl I've ever seen," said Brendan as he sat down in Chris and Rebecca's kitchen. "You must be able to mull up like an ounce in there!"

Chris looked at him coldy.

"It's a actually a Mongolian lentil pot mate," he said, as if he was talkling to a retarded child.

Rebecca hated Chris when he was like this and even more so now. Anyone could see filling Brendan up with a million litres of piss at the Brownlow was going to end in disaster. And Chris hadn't really done anything about it at the time.

But he could see which way the wind was turning and had, like the mercenary turncoat he was at heart, gone with it.

The powers that be at Carlton had assigned him the job of breaking the news to Brendan that he'd be put up for trade. He'd invited the big bloke around to his house to let him know and asked Rebecca to be there when he told him.

"He knows you and he likes you babes, it'll be better if you're there," he'd reasoned.

Rebecca suspected the reason Chris wanted her present was that he was afraid the bigger man would kick off and wanted her there to try and deter him.

Obviously sensing something was up, Brendan tried to get on the front foot.

"Look skip, yeah I stuffed up I know that, but ..."

Chris dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

"It's too late mate. We're going to put you up for trade. It's gone too far this time."

Brendan's head sank. Then Chris started with the speech. Rebecca had urged him just to tell Brendan they were dumping him and leave it at that, but no, Chris had insisted on giving the speech too.

"It's all about honesty, babes, it's all about honesty," he'd said.

He stood up and began pacing in front of the table. Rebecca curled her toes in embarrassment.

"Look mate," Chris began, with the kind of obnoxious false sincerity he'd mastered over the years, "You need to look at this as an opportunity, but you also have to take responsibility here too."

Rebecca held her head in her hands and wished she could be very far away.

"The last time you mucked up mate, the club told you it was your last chance and now you've mucked up again, we've got to stand by our word, or what would we look like? We'd look like frauds mate, and that's not the Carlton way. We're the honest club, the reliable club and we have to stand by that. You know, when my relentless homesickness suddenly came over me that day when Mr Pratt rang a few years ago, I thought, 'Really, there's only one place a bloke like me who is willing to shit in the face of the club that gave me my start belongs, and that's Carlton'"

Warming to his theme, Chris picked up a large banana from the fruit bowl and held it as he paced, sometimes pointing it directly at Brendan to emphasise a point.

"Think of some of the great players who have represented this club mate, guys like John Nicholls and Jimmy Buckley and Wayne Johnston. How would they feel if they found out we weren't being straight up? They'd be disgusted. And it's not just players mate, itd everyone administrators, guys like Mr Pratt, even the fans. Could look Judy Moran in the eye and tell her the club her boys loved wasn't legit? Neither could I.

"So take the opportunity mate, learn from it. Grow as a person. Here, look, I got this book for you, its called The Humility Of Failing Happily, its got all like Chinese sayings and Native American wisdom and shit. I used to keep it by the dunny and flick through it when I was snapping one off but I've read them all now, so you can have it."

He passed over the yellowing dog eared book. Brendan took it and considered it.

The big forward stood up and took a deep breath. He was visibly preparing to say something. Chris felt a warm glow within. He'd obviously gotten through to the big bloke and now, his leadership skills having worked their magic, Brendan wanted to thank him for setting his life back on track.

Chris waited expectanctly, using that look he'd practised for the last rounds of the Brownlow, the one where you expected the votes to come in because hey, you were pretty bloody good after all, but not up yourself and arrogant.

"Why don't you go and fuck yourself?" said Brendan.

"What?" asked Chris, blinking furiously.

"You heard me you stuck up piece of shit. Why don't you go and fuck yourself?"

Rebecca interjected softly: "Don't Brendan, not now"

"Nah, stuff it Becs, someone has to tell him. You swan around like your shit doesn't stink mate. You dogged on West Coast to come here, you pretend like you've always loved Carlton when every cunt knows you only came here coz Pratt gave you that bullshit job at his company. You act like you deserve to win every Brownlow but you go for bloke's eyes at the bottom of every pack. You're a bullshit artist mate. Everyone laughs at you, thinks you're a fuckwit and you don't even know it. At least I know I'm a dipshit when I get on the piss."

He turned and made to leave, but spun on his heel and offered a parting shot. He flung the book back at Chris.

"You can stick this up your fucken arse too. Native American wisdom. What a load of bullshit. Maybe get a book and how to root your missus properly, then she wouldn't be looking to see what's on the other side of the fence" he spat.

A few minutes later in his car outside, he was getting his breath back. Rebecca knocked on the window. He let her in.

"Well, I think that's your career at Princes Park over," she laughed.

"Yeah, spose it is. Glad I said it but. Sorry about that stuff about him not rooting your properly"

"Don't worry about it. Truth hurts I suppose. Where are you going to go now," Rebecca asked.

"Hawthorn or St Kilda," the big man replied.

"Did you say them because they were the first things that came into your head," Rebecca asked.

"Ummm, yeah," he replied.

"There's one more thing Rebecca. I'm gunna need your help again. If I want to find a new club, I'm gunna need to get rid of these," he said, gently cupping his enormous breasts.

Rebecca bit her lip. She really would miss those tits, but she understood too.