Serial pest Peter Hore has been roundly condemned with the usual harrumphing and impotent index finger-waving after running onto the ground during a Newcastle Knights match on Monday night.
But I’ll have none of it. The man’s a visionary - all he’s guilty of is making an otherwise boring game of football noteworthy.
Sonny Bill has left the country, and this proud Australian is simply trying to fill the void. Where else are we going to get a self-absorbed, partially brain-damaged dipstick? Remember people, beggars can’t be choosers.
Peter Hore clearly has a dream. And need I remind anyone that this country was built on dreams? Some have dreams of entering the exciting world of accounting. Others wish to master the oboe. But not Peter Hore. He simply wishes to make a dickhead of himself as publicly and as frequently as possible. And how dare anyone take this simple dream away from him?
Because while the rest of us ‘could-have-if-we-would-have-beens’ are sitting on the couch watching The Chaser, he’s out their actually making hijinks happen.
So far he’s invaded a Grand Prix, a Melbourne Cup, the South Australian Parliament, Michael Hutchence’s funeral and an Australian Open.
Do you think there aren’t sacrifices in his choice? Do you think he, for example, has any chance of ever having a girlfriend at any time ever for the rest of his life? Do you think his parents don’t use the word ‘disappointment’ within earshot of him at least twice a day?
And look at his ingenuity. It’s not just running on the pitch naked like those derivative hacks at the cricket. With Peter it’s a full-blown show.
In fact, the last time he invaded the pitch in Newcastle he rode a tricycle, clad in a Ned Kelly-style helmet and then let loose a bunch of kittens. Far from being reprimanded, he should have been a consultant for the Beijing Olympic Games opening ceremony. He should be our cultural attaché.
To think he’s still struggling to get freelance gigs while those Kevin Rudd cronies, Cate Blanchett and Andrew Upton, continue to sup at the prime ministerial table.
We may think we’re a bunch of happy-go-lucky larrikins. But unless we get behind this guy, all we’re showing is that we’re the kind of nation that thinks Mel Doyle would make an ideal dinner party companion.
And that’s not a country I, for one, want to live in.
March on Peter Hore. March on.
