Simple. Mark Maclure is one of the Carlton hard men of the late 1970s.
Having been a young Blue, finding his feet in the VFL when the Tigers were up and about, he would sleep with the lights on all week before a game against the Tigers. When he finally nodded off, the shadowy figures of Neil Balme, Ricky McLean and Rough Robbie McGhie would prance around in his nightmares, all bony elbows and rock-like fists of fury. He would wake in fright, cold sweat dripping down his furrowed brow. Fear ruled his life.
When the Tigers lost their way, he couldn't believe it for he first ten years. His wife grew tired of having to pinch him all the time. He knew that his fear was irrational (but still real) for the next ten. It was still real to him. Finally, he started to feel comfortable again sometime around the start of the new millenium. Many years of Counselling, combined with powerful drugs allowed him to finally slay his inner demons. Well, not so much slay, as accost them with his acidic but mostly benign verbal barbs.
In the 1970s, the chandelier, in all its glory, was on all night. In the 1980s, a couple of bed-room lamps were all that was needed and by the 1990s, he had graduated to a small, but powerful, night-light. As his confidence grew, he began making innocuous comments about Richmond's incompetence, only in mutters under his breath at first, just in case Sheedy or Malthouse were around and took offence.
When he realised that they didn't care, he was empowered...........a little bit anyway. Mutter turned to sottovoce, which in turn soon became a little voice, a watershed moment for him. For ages, sound came from him but his lips barely moved, just in case his words were heard by Hafey or even Bartlett. After all, who would want Gollum Bartlett running around in his dreams?
Twelve years without a finals appearance emboldened him. The big man with the pea-heart became the media commentator with the potty-mouth. Richo's a sook, Deledio is a girl, what were they thinking, Tambling before Buddy, Jack can't play.
It is now 2013, and the night-light is back on. Balme and McLean were laid to rest long ago but there is now another in his dreams, strong, aggressive, jaw set in granite, arms that are bigger than his own chicken legs, a sleeve tattoo, an anti-hero from the back blocks of West Heidelberg, where they eat night-lights for breakfast.
We dare you, Maclure. Say something nasty about Jakey. Go on, we dares ya!