How does that old joke go? That’s right. Rugby union players are chatting in the changerooms after a match where Alan Jones was their coach. One player: “Jones pulled me off at half-time!” Fellow player: “Bloody hell! All I got was some orange pieces!”

Well, it went something like that. The point being made is that the entire world has known Jones has been a shirtlifter for a very long time, not that there’s anything wrong with that, as someone once said. I couldn’t give a flying fuck that he enjoyed riding on the chocolate cha-cha; drilling for vegemite every now and then; pillow-biting for pleasure.

But countless decent people found Jones over a very long time to be a far-right bully who was also a misogynist, as if he badly needed to show the world that he had no interest at all in front-bummers. His call for Julia Gillard to be dumped at sea in a hessian bag is probably the best/worst example of that.

So we come to Jones’s trial on a number of sex charges and I was surprised to read a former journo colleague’s view that Jones deserved to be slotted as punishment for every other rotten thing he’s done, including coaching the Wallabies.

Personally, I suspect this odious creature in going to be found not guilty of checking out the state of rigidity of some young chaps and kissing one or two. I’m not claiming to have followed the trial closely but I’m yet to see any real evidence of a smoking bum … sorry… gun!

All of his alleged victims seem to be of age and while we might find their age differences and any supposed position of power on Jones’s part rather off-putting, why does a young man agree not just to spend a weekend at the great man’s rural retreat but follows orders to head off, have a shower and return dressed only in a bathrobe! The fellow did return with his underpants still on, the cheeky bugger! There’s nothing wrong with a bit of foreplay.

Another alleged victim froze when Jones tried to kiss one of his orifices, in this case his mouth.

So, this Bug ranter-in-residence and appointed-for-life court reporter can’t see Jones going down, so to speak. Well, not just yet. Although like my southern chum, I’m guessing many would love to see him slotted if for nothing more than the love letters he sent kids when he was a letcher … sorry …teacher.

But even then, would jail time in a men’s prison really be a punishment for this dreadful old prick?

Don Gordon-Brown

PS and to be fair: At least Alan Jones has fronted up at court smiling and courteous and with the help of a cane. The complete opposite of that image of Alan Bond (no relation) who shuffled along the footpath like a fully demented fool and ripped up and stamped on Paul Barry’s business card. That’s not to discount the possibility that full-blown Alzheimer’s could strike The Parrot any time soon.

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