Sir Hugh Percy
BigFooty Aristocrat
His new appearance irritated him as he shuffled to keep the cold at bay beneath the brick and concrete facade. His hair itched his scalp where it had been dyed black and harshly slicked back with ‘wet look’ product. His face also itched due to the close-cropped micro-beard he now sported, also dyed black, as well as the L’Oréal Olive Tan foundation. The dark brown contact lenses felt weird in his eye sockets, and the plain black, single-breasted Armani suit was intentionally one size too small. He’d usually never be seen dead in anything that wasn’t tailored in London. The pointy black Aquila boots he wore actually made him feel physically ill. These were the depths one had to descend to when ‘activated’ by agent 475. It could be worse though; at least he hadn’t been asked to go to Adelaide.
He’d been waiting there since 7am following instructions that he had to be there early if he was to ‘bump into’ the target and convince him to grant entry into the gloomy edifice. It was now 8:30am and the July morning had taken its toll. Perhaps he should try again the next day or, better yet, think of another way to pull this off – he had no desire to get dressed up like this again. Typically, just as he was embracing the idea of putting his feet up in front of an open fire with a nice brandy, the target arrived – showtime.
The target got out of a horrid large, navy-blue Australian sedan and walked towards the gate with a sports bag slung over his shoulder. He was grinning inanely, as if he’d just thought of some private joke, had ears poked out from his head unnaturally, and strawberry blonde hair that was fashioned in no discernible style whatsoever. He looked like a rube in some movie about the Ku Klux Klan or cowboys, but those looks were deceptive.
“Bolts, mate!” the man in the tight Armani suit said, approaching the target like an old friend with his hand outstretched. Even the acting sickened him.
The target took the offered hand and shook it, the stupid smile never leaving his face, “Umm… Yeah, hi… Who are you?”
“Sir… err, Sirhugh Percini. The boys in The Crew sent me down to check on how things were progressing with the… ahh… training.” he said as he tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially.
The target somehow managed to maintain his grin while also looking around the carpark furtively, “You’d better come in before someone sees you,” he said as he took ‘Sirhugh’ by the arm and led him to the gate. The gate opened with the swipe of a card and ‘Sirhugh’ was ushered inside.
“So, err… ‘Sirhugh’ is an interesting name…” the target said with an air of enquiry, though the smile never left his face.
“It’s a family name… um, from the Maserati region.” Seeing a quizzical look pass over the target’s still-smiling face, Sirhugh decided to go on the offensive, “Righto, Bolts, enough bullshit. I wanna know what you’ve been doing with the all the cash The Crew has been funnelling into this joint.”
“Okay, follow me.” Bolton kept smiling and led the way down a corridor to their left. About 30 paces down the corridor, walls adorned in photographs of men who looked like criminals of some sort and were all attired in the navy blue vests of their tribe, they came to a set of large double doors. Here Bolton stopped and gestured proudly towards the top of the doors.
“Blouse Rules?” Sirhugh read the large, crudely painted sign aloud.
“You like it? Pretty clever, huh?” Bolton chirped enthusiastically.
“I don’t even…” Sirhugh began before Bolton cut in, “You don’t get it, do you?” Bolton was now giggling “It’s like House Rules, but Blues Rules – Blouse Rules!”
“But a ‘blouse’ is a ladies… never mind.” Sirhugh decided against trying to correct the cretin - that wasn’t what he was there for. How was this guy the genius behind Carlton’s resurgence?
Bolton pushed open the doors and led Sirhugh into a cavernous room that may once have been a gym, but was now filled with an odd assortment of power tools and laboratory equipment.
“The inspiration that we’ve taken from that wonderful Channel 7 television series, is to reimagine by repurposing and upcycling. Anecdotally, Mick Malthouse hit upon the idea when he found himself reflecting on Matt Kreuzer as a Frankenstein-looking mothergoose. But his methods were crude and Matty’s ‘knee injuries’ were actually his body rejecting John Nicholls’ brain. We also had some failures, like trying to inject Dale Thomas with Brock McLean’s toughness, but we just ended up with a player who was mentally weak and slow. Finally success: we have managed to infuse Liam Jones with essence of Geoff Southby!”
As they’d been talking, Bolton had been leading Sirhugh towards another door at the end of the room, “So what happens to the old players that you are… scavenging for parts?” Sirhugh asked.
“I’m glad you asked”, Bolton said and pushed open the door to reveal a race out to the centre of Princes Park, “They get ‘renewed’ by carousel.”
Bolton led Sirhugh down the race to the ground proper, where a number of figures were standing in a circle in the middle of the field, clad in long navy-blue robes. An ethereal voice boomed out across the ground, “Judd 5, identify.” One of the figures took off his hood and raised his left hand to reveal a glowing crystal in the palm, Sirhugh was amazed to see that it was Chris Judd. “Judd 5, enter the carousel. This is the time for renewal.” boomed the voice. Suddenly a ghostly light appeared in the sky above the hooded figures, and began to spin slowly. As though by some slow, invisible vortex Chris Judd was swept up into the air and began to slowly circle upwards towards the light while other members of the congregation cheered. However, before he reached the light, there was a zap and he was vapourised.
“Wow, has this review jumped the shark?!” Sirhugh exclaimed.
“It surely has,” grinned Bolton, “but I don’t think you’re who you say you are. Sandmen!”
Out of nowhere two figures appeared. “Kade 6, Patrick 9, please escort our visitor to carousel.” Sirhugh was roughly grabbed by the upper arms and marched down towards the circled figures in the middle of the ground. “You’re lucky, I have to wait until the end of the year for my go at carousel.” Kade 6 said, with quite some disappointment, "The future is NOW."
"The future is NOW," Patrick 6 repeated.
Pictured: Kade 6 and Patrick 9 – Sandmen watching over Carousel
Sirhugh’s brain was in overdrive, how was he going to get out of this. Suddenly he remembered Patrick 9’s glass jaw, and he flung his head in that direction. His head didn’t make contact, but his hair, with all its product in it, was just firm enough to clip Patrick 9 on the chin and he went down as though an anvil had been dropped on him. Kade 6 still had hold of his left arm. “Oh look, a chip on the ground.” Sirhugh said, thinking quickly, and Kade 6 immediately let go of his arm to go and find the chip.
Sirhugh was running then, across the ground to another race on the other side. He ran up to the door at the end and kicked it without breaking stride. It flew open to reveal an icy cave. Lord Ponsdale was sitting on a rock in the cave, “No Jenny Agutter?” the red priest asked longingly.
“Maybe next time, we don’t have time for that now.” Sirhugh said breathlessly, “What are you doing here anyway?”
“Lord Stryker thought you would need back-up. I’ve got your destrier outside.” Lord Ponsdale rose and they both ran away from the ground through the icy tunnel. At the exit stood Sir Hugh’s trusty steed. He leaped upon the mighty beast’s back and cried, “Tally-ho, Range Rover Sport! Dees by 16!”
He’d been waiting there since 7am following instructions that he had to be there early if he was to ‘bump into’ the target and convince him to grant entry into the gloomy edifice. It was now 8:30am and the July morning had taken its toll. Perhaps he should try again the next day or, better yet, think of another way to pull this off – he had no desire to get dressed up like this again. Typically, just as he was embracing the idea of putting his feet up in front of an open fire with a nice brandy, the target arrived – showtime.
The target got out of a horrid large, navy-blue Australian sedan and walked towards the gate with a sports bag slung over his shoulder. He was grinning inanely, as if he’d just thought of some private joke, had ears poked out from his head unnaturally, and strawberry blonde hair that was fashioned in no discernible style whatsoever. He looked like a rube in some movie about the Ku Klux Klan or cowboys, but those looks were deceptive.
“Bolts, mate!” the man in the tight Armani suit said, approaching the target like an old friend with his hand outstretched. Even the acting sickened him.
The target took the offered hand and shook it, the stupid smile never leaving his face, “Umm… Yeah, hi… Who are you?”
“Sir… err, Sirhugh Percini. The boys in The Crew sent me down to check on how things were progressing with the… ahh… training.” he said as he tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially.
The target somehow managed to maintain his grin while also looking around the carpark furtively, “You’d better come in before someone sees you,” he said as he took ‘Sirhugh’ by the arm and led him to the gate. The gate opened with the swipe of a card and ‘Sirhugh’ was ushered inside.
“So, err… ‘Sirhugh’ is an interesting name…” the target said with an air of enquiry, though the smile never left his face.
“It’s a family name… um, from the Maserati region.” Seeing a quizzical look pass over the target’s still-smiling face, Sirhugh decided to go on the offensive, “Righto, Bolts, enough bullshit. I wanna know what you’ve been doing with the all the cash The Crew has been funnelling into this joint.”
“Okay, follow me.” Bolton kept smiling and led the way down a corridor to their left. About 30 paces down the corridor, walls adorned in photographs of men who looked like criminals of some sort and were all attired in the navy blue vests of their tribe, they came to a set of large double doors. Here Bolton stopped and gestured proudly towards the top of the doors.
“Blouse Rules?” Sirhugh read the large, crudely painted sign aloud.
“You like it? Pretty clever, huh?” Bolton chirped enthusiastically.
“I don’t even…” Sirhugh began before Bolton cut in, “You don’t get it, do you?” Bolton was now giggling “It’s like House Rules, but Blues Rules – Blouse Rules!”
“But a ‘blouse’ is a ladies… never mind.” Sirhugh decided against trying to correct the cretin - that wasn’t what he was there for. How was this guy the genius behind Carlton’s resurgence?
Bolton pushed open the doors and led Sirhugh into a cavernous room that may once have been a gym, but was now filled with an odd assortment of power tools and laboratory equipment.
“The inspiration that we’ve taken from that wonderful Channel 7 television series, is to reimagine by repurposing and upcycling. Anecdotally, Mick Malthouse hit upon the idea when he found himself reflecting on Matt Kreuzer as a Frankenstein-looking mothergoose. But his methods were crude and Matty’s ‘knee injuries’ were actually his body rejecting John Nicholls’ brain. We also had some failures, like trying to inject Dale Thomas with Brock McLean’s toughness, but we just ended up with a player who was mentally weak and slow. Finally success: we have managed to infuse Liam Jones with essence of Geoff Southby!”
As they’d been talking, Bolton had been leading Sirhugh towards another door at the end of the room, “So what happens to the old players that you are… scavenging for parts?” Sirhugh asked.
“I’m glad you asked”, Bolton said and pushed open the door to reveal a race out to the centre of Princes Park, “They get ‘renewed’ by carousel.”
Bolton led Sirhugh down the race to the ground proper, where a number of figures were standing in a circle in the middle of the field, clad in long navy-blue robes. An ethereal voice boomed out across the ground, “Judd 5, identify.” One of the figures took off his hood and raised his left hand to reveal a glowing crystal in the palm, Sirhugh was amazed to see that it was Chris Judd. “Judd 5, enter the carousel. This is the time for renewal.” boomed the voice. Suddenly a ghostly light appeared in the sky above the hooded figures, and began to spin slowly. As though by some slow, invisible vortex Chris Judd was swept up into the air and began to slowly circle upwards towards the light while other members of the congregation cheered. However, before he reached the light, there was a zap and he was vapourised.
“Wow, has this review jumped the shark?!” Sirhugh exclaimed.
“It surely has,” grinned Bolton, “but I don’t think you’re who you say you are. Sandmen!”
Out of nowhere two figures appeared. “Kade 6, Patrick 9, please escort our visitor to carousel.” Sirhugh was roughly grabbed by the upper arms and marched down towards the circled figures in the middle of the ground. “You’re lucky, I have to wait until the end of the year for my go at carousel.” Kade 6 said, with quite some disappointment, "The future is NOW."
"The future is NOW," Patrick 6 repeated.
Pictured: Kade 6 and Patrick 9 – Sandmen watching over Carousel
Sirhugh’s brain was in overdrive, how was he going to get out of this. Suddenly he remembered Patrick 9’s glass jaw, and he flung his head in that direction. His head didn’t make contact, but his hair, with all its product in it, was just firm enough to clip Patrick 9 on the chin and he went down as though an anvil had been dropped on him. Kade 6 still had hold of his left arm. “Oh look, a chip on the ground.” Sirhugh said, thinking quickly, and Kade 6 immediately let go of his arm to go and find the chip.
Sirhugh was running then, across the ground to another race on the other side. He ran up to the door at the end and kicked it without breaking stride. It flew open to reveal an icy cave. Lord Ponsdale was sitting on a rock in the cave, “No Jenny Agutter?” the red priest asked longingly.
“Maybe next time, we don’t have time for that now.” Sirhugh said breathlessly, “What are you doing here anyway?”
“Lord Stryker thought you would need back-up. I’ve got your destrier outside.” Lord Ponsdale rose and they both ran away from the ground through the icy tunnel. At the exit stood Sir Hugh’s trusty steed. He leaped upon the mighty beast’s back and cried, “Tally-ho, Range Rover Sport! Dees by 16!”
