Just call me Bruce Alrighty! I have just discovered that I have the power to make things hunky dory in the world of sport.

NRL boss David Gallop was blind and could not see the small kiddies who had to go to bed hungry for a try fest … without watching the biggest game of the year.

I saw that we were to be plunged into eternal darkness every September at rugby league grand final time, and I saw that it was wrong – a grievous sin. Forgive them for they know not what they do? Not on your Nellie Melba.

But lo, I met him on the road to Damascus (or was it Balmain? Possibly Redfern … might have been Brookvale) and the sponsor’s blinkers he coveted, fell away.

I touched him in a way that made him see the light! A laying on of the hands that John Hopoate would be proud of.

As an added bonus I gave him the Liverpool kiss right where it hurts – in the TV ratings. For the past six years I have instigated a single-minded remote-controlled boycott of the night grand final.

Except for the time when the Cowboys made the end-of-year play-off and I snuck a peek … and of course the Broncos raining all over the Storm, I have avoided the NRL night final like a biblical plague.

It felt good, nay heavenly. I was holier than thou and one day David looked at the ratings after the Storm had blitzkrieged Manly and saw that there was something missing. Me.

“God help us,” my omnipresent self heard Dave say, “if Gardiner has stopped viewing, this could become serious – the next thing you know his wife Desley will stop watching – his neighbour Wayne will switch off … where will it stop!”

And so on December 17, he atoned … caved in …went to water as I started walking on it, and announced an end to rugby league’s longest purgatory.

What it means is obvious. Billy Idol will be able to come back and finish his grand final pre-game set that was blacked out in that night time power failure.

Even if he is unplugged again we’ll be able to see him snarl. On divining Dave’s humiliating backdown, I felt reborn.

Often, survivors of train wrecks like the head-on collision between the Super League express and that clattering old ARL freight train, say if they can survive that they can survive anything … even a pre-game summary of the god awful obvious by Ben Ikin. They feel omnipotent.

Having turned back the night, I can right all other wrongs in sport. For my next trick, I want to see boxing slime bag Don King get a decent short back and sides and for someone to punch his lights out.

I want to see Gus Gould join the priesthood, preferably one where they take a lifelong vow of silence – that would just about kill him.

Yeah, I say unto you, Australian rugby union shall be put out of its misery. It is hearby euthanased.

The Olympics from this day forward shall be run in the nude, as it was in the beginning. It was only when man started wearing clothes that sporting good manufacturers began paying the big bucks.

And while I’m at it, I will banish all sporting evil in one commandment.

Sorry, Daily sport journalist Jon “Tuckshop” Tuxworth, but all sports betting can go to hell. Amen.