NSW needs to keep it real and stick with Slick Rick

 

Roar Guru

By Dane25, 3 Jul 2012 Dane25 is a Roar Guru

Tagged:

 Mal Meninga, NRL, Ricky Stuart, Rugby League, State Of Origin

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It’s not often that you have a light and airy 90s synth-pop song bouncing around in your head in the approach to a traffic-halting Origin decider.

However, as I consider the possibility of our pugnacious el capitano Ricky Stuart leaving the Blues at the completion of this series, I have the pulse and repetition of mainstay musical outfit KWS (and their cover version of a KC and the Sunshine Band classic) playing inside my mind.

“Please don’t go… Don’t go… Don’t go away…”

It is these simple words from a group of underrated musical geniuses that burn through the blue sky like a flare and echo the sentiments of the southern state.

NSW’s renaissance needs to maintain it’s collaboration with Stuart to survive just like modern rap requires buckets of profanities. To prosper and remain relevant, a coarse edginess and brash junkyard demeanour is required for both.

Stuart’s cocky street-fighter style is the sole reason that our formerly ragged and reticent state side is in this series right up to its 12 carat grill and Ray Bans.

What was before an under confident and scruffy pub performer singing cat-suffocating covers has now been given a contemporary haircut and had a processor applied to his once tryptophan-like voice. There’s scantily-clad ladies gyrating on podiums in the background and he’s labouring under the weight of seven chunky gold chains and a Rolex the size of a small army tank.

The ragged beanie has been replaced with a cap…and you know it’s on backwards.

All thanks to Stuart, our team has been pimped with self-belief and now they’ve got heat-packing Compton swagger.

He’s made it funky to be Blue again.

Now before I get a broadside from the northside who will be cussin’ and playa-hatin’ about how we haven’t won anything yet, let me say this.

Ricky’s fiery approach has ever so slightly bumped Mal Meninga and his mixing decks, resulting in a small scratch on the vinyl and a base line beat being just a tad imbalanced from it’s normal harmony and unison.

Basically, the whole Queensland track about world beating, chest puffing and money making isn’t murdered yet, but the MC is scrambling for an improvised way to finalise a muffed-up rhyming couplet after seven consecutive verses of unbroken rhythmic street poetry.

How else would you explain the events of the last few weeks?

Naming a squad of 20 in alphabetical order, picking injured players, breaking the loyalty ethos by excluding one of the family, throwing in an unproven rookie and enforcing a media ban is the kind of behaviour usually exhibited by struggling Blues campaigns from the past who were straining for any type of advantage.

Is this the regular confident conduct from the street-ruling maroon bandannas?

You know the answer is ‘hell no.’

Stuart has got the Maroons looking over their shoulder for the first time in years.

What used to be a small compact car in the Queensland rear view mirror has now transformed in to a bitumen-bounding, hydraulic-fitted sedan with some Snoop blaring, and it’s roared right up beside the reigning champs at the lights with the gang inside screaming the crudest yo’ mumma jokes you’ve ever heard.

The sky blue state no longer cowers thanks to the coach and his pursuit of lost street cred.

ANZ Stadium is now officially ‘cauldronised’, the reinvigorated faithful are following him like extras in a drop-top Cadillac in a Tupac video, and he’s assembled a robust nucleus of thugs that are inciting hate in the Queensland public for the first time in years, which is a long way from our revolving door of used-and-abused poptarts from previous failed bids.

The NSW game has never looked stronger in this fruitless and never-ending bloody turf war.

To those in power in the NSW projects, take this advice.

Regardless of Wednesday’s result, do whatever it takes to keep Stuart as the B.I.G. of this operation indefinitely.

No bling is too pricey, no backstage demand too outrageous, no bottle of criss too extravagant. Just keep the man on the mic.

I don’t want our proud state to go back to being synth-pop softies.

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