I have never read Franz Kafka’s The Trial, which I believe is about an absolute abuse of official power.

I didn’t have to, because I grew up in Ipswich under the Joh government, where the coppers, on certain late-night patrols, could arrest anyone they felt like even if they were four times more blotto than the alleged offenders.

I think Franz’s book is about a guy called Joseph K (possibly a cousin to the Broncos’ Special K) trying out for a footie club. This average Joe apparently gets railroaded by shadowy types for something he never had a clue about and has his career ended in a kangaroo court.

He wouldn’t be the first to fall foul of a dodgy manager, referees and a red-hot judiciary. Seems to me that Lote Tuqiri is in a pretty dark place now, where he can never put a foot right … and there’s no way out.

Lote’s Trial: Act I. Setting: A darkened room, a plain cheap timber desk, one basic desk lamp throwing a small circle of light and two chairs.

Man in trench coat (MITC) says to someone off stage: “Send in the player of interest.”

A dishevelled, large, dark man who will be known only as LT is shuffled in wearing orange overalls, cuffs and leg irons.

LT: “Busted again! Bummer. Where do I sign, dude?”

MITC: “Sign what?”

LT: “My bail release. What is it? Still two bucks for drunk and disorderly?”

MITC: “We will determine what offences you have committed and assign suitable punishment.”

LT: “But I didn’t do anything … that I can remember. All I know was I was hauled out of bed and dragged here by two goons with no necks who looked like props.”

MITC slugs LT with a blackjack.

MITC: “Don’t play the innocent with me, boy. You pass wind, don’t you? Then that makes you ripe for a global warming rap, for starters. Worst of all, you played league for years … that’s got to make you guilty of plenty. And here at the Rugby Integrity Bureau, we intend to get to the bottom of your code violations and crimes against rugby purity. None of this would have happened if Dally Messenger had not defected in the first place.”

MITC hands LT a photo.

MITC: “Do you know this man?”

LT: “Hmmm … is it that old ’70s singer dude, Cat Stevens?”

MITC: “It’s Osama bin Laden. He’s the leader of al-Qaeda. Of course you know who they are, don’t you.”

LT: “I’m not sure…are they playing in the World Cup in France?”

MITC gives LT a double back-hander with the blackjack.

MITC: “Don’t play cute! The answer is no, and neither are you. This man, as you well know, is a terrorist leader and we think that the way you have been doing everything in your power to destroy us … you must be a sporting insurgent. You and those distasteful Sailor types came to our game spreading your poisonous, decadent ways! $%ˆ&*(# infidel dogs!”

Voice from corner of darkened room: “Please watch your language, Bureau Supervisor, you are starting to sound like them. We need to rise above the rabble class if we are to be victorious in the war against those in league against us.”

LT: “John? John O’Neill, are you there? I can’t see you, but that sounds like you.”

No answer.

MITC: “For all your past and future transgressions, not the least the failure to appreciate the $5 million we threw at you to remain a defector, we are placing a playing control order on you until we re-educate you to a fit state to play. You have a choice – six years of medical studies and then two years of sleepless nights as a hospital intern or four years of lawyer studies after which you can sit for your bar exam. Then we might consider letting you play again. What will it be?”

LT: “Hmmm, that’s a toughie. I’m used to going for days without sleep and my lifestyle’s fully sick but I like the sound of testing myself at the bar. I think I’ll major in shooters!”