The Des Hasler press conference has now replaced The Voice as television’s most dependable display of excessive complimenting and goodwill.
It seems that the longer the current Bulldogs’ winning streak stretches, the more sparkles and rainbows he bequeaths on next weekend’s opposition.
His weekly sessions on the news microphones have gone from the previous word-efficient grunting with an occasional spurt of fork-tongued vilification to the current super-sized outpouring of spoken hugs and linguistic bum-taps.
Congregating journalists used to timidly circle him like mistreated animals, unsure if another volatile burst of slander or emotionless grumbling was coming their way.
In 2012, they walk away from Belmore like they’ve watched a Disney movie after a shot of happy gas.
This week, he finished his media chat session with a tired set of lungs after blowing a jet stream of benevolent smoke up the backside of anything coloured maroon and white. Nobody on the peninsula was spared, from the players to the fans and everything in between, including Brookvale Oval, the Corso and even Manly Oceanworld.
This follows on from the loved-up hippie ramblings from previous weeks which included him nearly offering up his first born to the Melbourne Storm, preaching the good word about the Tigers like a religious missionary and being so impressed with the Roosters that he just had to pinch some of the product for himself.
At this rate, you wouldn’t be surprised to eventually see a queue of society’s downtrodden and disrespected forming at his doorstep in the hope of a restoration of self-esteem.
You can picture it now. Recently kicked arses, such as Nick D’Arcy, Julia Gillard and the cast of The Shire all patiently lining up to ask Des a question, praying for a warming blast of verbalised flower petals for the soul.
He’s just that generous with pumping up other people’s tyres right now.
So what the hell is on his raisin toast that is causing this saint-like outpouring of affection?
His priors seemingly indicate that it’s another attempt by Hasler to be Peter Powers; a shifty attempt to stupefy the minds of his opponents while he pilots more aircraft under the radar.
Surely not!
While ever the victories keep rolling in at Canterbury, his semi-automatic attention-deflecting through the means of a blanket fondness for all of league’s creatures will be seen as a smokescreen that even Ray Charles could spot a nickel through.
I’m going to give Des the benefit of the doubt and assume that he’s not a naïve fool. The shrewd operator is intelligent enough to acknowledge the death by flogging of that old chestnut.
So what else could it be that has him smitten with the universe?
Is it the move from RSL blow-wave mop to short-cropped Pitt motif?
Or perhaps it is the beautiful surrounds of Bankstown that calms him like a warm mug of prozac?
I would love to know, or at least get the name of the medication he takes these days.
Whatever it is, get in line for a free Hasler hug right now.
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