Carlton, Senior Listed Player, 2009, Simon Wiggins
Simon Wiggins, his face flattened in a delightful incident with a pair of steel caps, has the flattened face of one foraging for food in a vat of frying fat. You'd go as far as to say you wouldn't pass to him if he was on fire.
The Hair: I'm not sure that there's any easy way to say that. Sticks out like a sore bum. Might look good doused in petrol and set alight. Try this at home. Gropes. Insert funny bit. Find out what makes something so. Forget it. Fed up.
The Teeth: always someone over my shoulder. Stare down at lifeless keys. Look up. Gum disease. Falling out means impotence. Growing extra ones. Good enough to have a vagina of his own. I'd do him. In that case.
The Skin: it's dry and thick. Makes a good glove. Stick a greasy hand up. Pull out the insides. Make light of something. Forget the content. For the sake of the form. Bite the bucket. Plenty of uselessness. Added redundancies.
Marcel Proust says: "I can write word after word after word after word, in no particular order, and still believe in the basic order of society. By that I mean, we need people to be on the bottom to have people on the top. I always preferred sidesaddle, myself. Never really cared for horses. I would just let them starve. Silly buggers."
