Crow Boy: Have I missed something my portly pal? Maybe I’ve been blinded by the two wombats which double as your bottom cheeks, but someone seems to have changed the meaning of “king hit”.

Nugget: Yes, the definition given to us thanks to the Jaiman Lowe/ Brett Delaney incident from the weekend shows us that, just as sure as your nose can be used as a sundial style to tell time anywhere in this big brown land, our sports are being softened up.

CB: Back in my day, a king hit was when a bloke didn’t see it coming. But in this case, Delaney stood there and got flattened by a beautifully timed right hand. The Lowe wind-up came with a telegram and even half his teammates were calling “doona” (duck down).

N: People don’t actually realise it is a so called a “King Hit” as it is named after shamelessly shonky boxing promoter Don King. This is because when a bloke gets punched in the snot box it comes as such a surprise that his hair instantly turns grey and stands eight inches above the scalp. At no time did I see this happen to the Titans’ Delaney, thus it is not a King hit. The defence rests, your honour.

CB: And to the media outlet which this week called the punch a “cheap shot”, shame on you. By my definition, a cheap shot is going pig shooting with former Qantas hostie Lisa Robertson.

N: As if this king hit debacle isn’t enough to rile the most mild mannered of red meat-eating, commonsense loving Aussies, we are then faced with this ridiculous nonsense of boy next door Chris Judd being defamed with the ugliest charge of them all, the eye gouge.

CB: I saw no claret, no impairment which required the use of a cane or a canny labrador ... not even a hint of redness. Juddy was simply providing a much-needed facial to Campbell Brown … and we all know how important exfoliation is, especially the sunlamp kids from Hawthorn. Each week they get a complimentary pumice stone with their jumpers.

N: I’m sure Shane Crawford spends three sessions a week explaining the dangers of dead skin cells to the entire playing group. But again is this just another sign of our wussy bloody, soy macchiato, chest-waxing, tree-hugging public liability insurance-buying society has become just like David Hasselhoff’s chest – soft and a little bit unmanageable. In the glory days, the only way an official would even think about crying “eye gouge” is if you went in for halftime with the offending peeper still stuck on the business-end of your thumb.

CB: Recent events can only draw softness comparisons when that new-age New Kid on the Block Toby bawled after being ousted from Dancing with the Stars. And what happened to the good old fashioned stink which we used to see every Origin. There’s been no hint of a “cattle dog” call in the scrum. Instead we’ve got players calling “Maltese”. It’s fluffy, has no personality, and is safe for the kiddies.

N: Origin was a distinct disappointment in the fisticuffs department. Normally the opening 10 minutes is like the deleted scenes from Jean Claude Van Damme’s Bloodsport. However the closest we came to some old-fashioned Matthew Newton-style action was the look Anthony Minichiello fired at Jarryd Hayne after the latter attempted the rugby league equivalent of tip and run.

CB: Now I don’t condone unwarranted violence, unless it’s against Daryl Somers, but if there is ever a time for a box-on it’s Origin. The hierarchy of the game have reduced the traditional stoushes to wrestling matches between Molly Meldrum and Anthony Callea.

N: Would that constitute child abuse? Clearly the second State of Origin has more than the continuation of the series riding on it. I can’t help but feel that if Game Two is not filled with more horrifyingly disturbing footage than Webster’s last trip to the Neverland ranch, sport’s greatest contest may join eye gouging and king hits on the politically correct scrapheap. Worrying times citizens.