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In another sham-exclusive from The Roar, our ground forces have intercepted a letter of dubious authenticity that reveals Russell Crowe’s pleas for Sam Burgess to return to the Rabbitohs before something silly happens, like Crowe recording more music.
After this week’s bob each-way prediction by Steve McNamara that Burgess would return to the game within “six months, 12 months, three years, five years, who knows”, the rumour mill went into overdrive as to the rugby convert’s next move, with all rumours mooted being non-rugby based.
However, despite the England coach’s non-committal prediction that the Clive Churchill Medallist will definitely be back in rugby league somewhere on the planet sometime this decade, it has been of no comfort to Rabbitohs fans who are aching for his immediate return after a season that finished with all the sunshine of a country music ballad.
Sensing the unrest of his people and a potential decline in membership numbers, Crowe has pounced on the chance to catch Burgess at a vulnerable time with this heartfelt missive that holds nothing back.
As you can tell by the letter’s tone, the Redfern overlord is assuming that if the big Brit actually returns to the game, and chooses to return to the game in Australia, and that the financial obstacles involved part like the Red Sea, and that he can locate a rental in Sydney because people are literally living six-deep in one-bedders these days, then he will be reuniting with the Rabbitohs to return the place to 2014 business as usual.
The superb work of The Roar‘s shady operatives grants you this rare insight into Crowe and his paternal-like love for Burgess and winning stuff. It is an appeal where his charisma imbues freely throughout, with his desperation and temptation to bribe gravely apparent. And his disdain for rugby.
It’s Uncle Rusty here, your dear old chum who cuts the cheques at Redfern. I’m currently on-set of my latest Oscar certainty and I thought I would take a five-minute break from being an award-winning thespian to pen you a letter.
Burgo old son, I’m just going to cut to the chase before my really masculine tears begin to smudge my exquisite Victorian-era handwriting.
I miss you. Souths misses you. The NRL misses you too, but in saying that, don’t worry about the NRL. It can’t articulate affection for you in the manner I do, not to mention, it’s never starred alongside Joaquin Phoenix. So let’s just concentrate on Souths and old Rusty, because we miss you and that’s the main thing. We can worry about the game if it wants to pop open the war chest, okay?
Did I mention that I miss you? There are so many things me and my purchased franchise miss about you. We miss your presence, your mateship, your warm British disposition, and most of all, your metres gained.
I don’t know if you noticed, but our beloved Bunnies couldn’t defend the crown this year, meaning we fell 10 premierships short of equalling the Dragons record. It’s no biggie as long as we win the next 15, however this is not my prime concern.
It’s the fact that our pack chowed down on all before it in 2014, but this year it played like it was the size of a Keno pencil. We suffered sans you, and despite our exhaustive search that took us everywhere from local junior nurseries to the holding cells of a county sheriff’s office in Arizona, all we could find to replace you was Tim Grant.
Sure, he tried valiantly to replace you in my heart, but did he ever once have his own face rearranged while making history? No he didn’t. Was he the experienced, calm and comically oversized head in the forwards we craved? No he wasn’t.
That’s no offence to Tim. I’m not angry at the kid, I just happened to sign him to a four-year deal around the time my Burgess withdrawals kicked off. He was a victim of terrible timing, taking my money at a moment where I was so down that I nearly returned to song writing. This could’ve been disastrous for anyone with more than 50 per cent hearing capability. See what we are dealing with here?
Sam, I want you to make a decision on your own, and I want to stress that I’m not here to tell you what to do. But you simply cannot persevere in rugby union and I’ll stop at nothing to ensure that you don’t.
How can you return to a game where you were lambasted every time you made multiple schoolboy errors? Not to mention the treatment you received from a hierarchy that toed you around like a political football and shoehorned you into positions unsuited to your skills, for example, anywhere on a rugby field?
In addition to this, the way your ungrateful nation acted towards you in the Rugby World Cup was criminal. Sure, your team passed out at their own party before the hors d’oeuvres were served, but to have a #BlameBurgess social media campaign sweep the country? Abhorrent.
I just assumed it was started by a global male population suffering penis envy after seeing your brother’s selfie. How wrong I was.
And don’t worry about your contract with Bath. Uncle Rusty can take care of that. And if you are having any trouble deciding on whether or not you should be ripping the thing to pieces, just remember that your coach Mike Ford played rugby league for the Crushers. I mean, hello?!
So in summary, Sam, you must return to Souths. Besides, News Limited has declared you are, so really you are obligated to do so. If you are struggling to reach an outcome in this important decision, just always remember you can’t go wrong by looking out for numero uno. Me.
Now back to work on-set. I have an on-screen kiss with Cameron Diaz to finish. No prizes for guessing who I’ll be dreaming of!
Lots of love from the current holder of the Nines, World Club Challenge, Charity Shield and too many Golden Globes to count,
RC