I’m dreaming. I am in Suncorp Stadium. Around me, bedlam. A maroon-themed din. Queenslanders. They are drooling and barking. They are pulling on chains around their neck. Crazed, like junkyard dogs.

Their anger is directed at a figure in the opposite stand. Except Suncorp has now turned into the Colosseum and it’s the Emperor they are hating on.

He is sitting in a box overlooking the field. He looks like Phil Gould. He is covered in cockroaches.

The maroon crowd seethes, roars, spits, shakes the stadium with their rage. And then the emperor morphs. Becomes Wayne Bennett. The mob is soothed, settles, becomes peaceful. Wayne is now dressed in white. He wears a skull cap. He is the Pope. He gives them all a blessing.

The stadium lights dim. A spotlight finds a structure on the half way line on the field. It’s a glasshouse. A beat, then a figure comes running out of the glasshouse door, arms raised. The crowd roars. It’s Billy Slater.

Out of nowhere, the great Goondiwindi grey, Gunsynd, appears and Billy swings himself onto it. He rides toward another figure, wearing a blue t-shirt that says ‘BEST BLOKE EVER’ on the front. And ‘NOT MADGE’ on the back.

It’s Laurie Daley. He’s wearing a fedora, holding a handful of old style cardboard betting tickets and calling out betting odds. ‘Evens, Gunsynd!’, he’s shouting as Billy leans over the mighty grey’s withers and tweaks Laurie’s nose, right off. The crowd roars.

Spotlighted, Billy gallops Gunsynd for a lap of the field holding Laurie’s nose above his head. Frenzy breaks out in the stands.

The spotlight settles on another figure on the field. Statuesque. Dressed in sackcloth. A pile of tinder is stacked into a pyramid beside him. The crowd’s booing is deep and prolonged.

Latrell Mitchell. (Photo by Quinn Rooney/Getty Images)

It is Latrell standing there. His lips are sown together. Silent, he raises a fist into the air. The boos get louder. Boxes of matches are being thrown onto the field.

Suddenly he is joined by a couple holding hands. It is Nathan Cleary and Mitch Moses. They start singing in perfect harmony.

Islands in the stream
That is what we are
No one in between
How can we be wrong?
Sail away with me
To another world
And we rely on each other, ah ha
From one lover to another, ah ha

A forlorn figure approaches sniffling, and stares at them. He is holding a tissue to his eye. He is joined by Brian To’o, who puts a hand on his shoulder consolingly and leads Jarome Luai away.

The spotlight moves to another figure. It is a very big boy in nappies. He is patting a bulldog. He looks like Lachlan Galvin. It is Lachlan Galvin.

Reece Walsh appears. Eyes sparkling with mischief. A shower of panties are thrown from the stands. On one hand Reece wears a boxing glove. He belts Galvin, hoots in delight, skips around the field and then falls over laughing. Officials wearing FUN POLICE uniforms appear. They drag him away. Galvin groggily staggers away.

I now see Daly Cherry-Evans. He’s dressed in a tux near a parked Rolls Royce holding a latte in one hand and a sign that says, ‘Homeless’ in the other. Nearby, Foghorn Leghorn is counting banknotes.

An explosion on the other side of the field. The spotlight moves over there. It is Johnathon Thurston standing with Brent Read. They are looking at a smoking pile. They then look at each other in amazement. Suddenly everyone’s looking at the big screen. It’s a replay. I see Spencer Leniu looking at the sideline briefly where the two are standing, just before he spontaneously combusts. The crowd roars and cheers.

And then the roars and cheers reach a new high. Walsh has suddenly appeared again. Running. Gloved hand raised. Chased by the fun police. And now here’s Hudson Young, waving around a blow-up baseball bat. Over the loudspeaker, a voice booms, “What happens in Vegas…”

I wake up. I’m in a lather. Where did all that come from? I need to read myself back to sleep. No not that. Something other than rugby league stuff …