Carlton, Senior Listed Player, 2009, Cameron Cloke
Cameron Cloke, a strapping flagellator in the spirit of the finest self-mutilators of yore, is best described as indescribable. If you bumped into him in the street he wouldn't hesitate to give you a good dressing-gown and a slipper in the eyes.
The Hair: it doesn't take much imagination to imagine Cameron sitting on the toilet, because he routinely sends happy-snaps to all his friends. I remember the first time he went to the toilet in bed. He imagined I was standing over the toilet.
The Teeth: you'd pray that Cameron would sew his lips together again, when you see him unfurl a buck-toothed smile that'll send you into fit on some new trousers. His charred-body you could only recognise as his from another's by his.
The Skin: welted and forlorn, Cameron's racially sensitive soul-suit is a mixture of his mum and his dad who he butchered, ate and skinned one fine day. If you see their son, hide and then hit him really hard with a few blunt remarks and run.
Jeff Thomson says: "Don't tell anybody but, I think I might have a prolapse of the anus. Every time I drop Cathy Freeman off at the pool, I nearly touch the water. Just one thing though, I think I might have been farted by my own mother."
