The Melbourne Storm of 2017 has, like so much in life, ultimately been a majorly moist disappointment. What started as the promise of a biblical flood, never before seen by this cotton-wool generation, has morphed into nothing more than a miserable drizzle masquerading as the deluge to cleanse all sins and rebuild the world anew.
Mark Williams, forecaster and spokesperson for the Bureau of Meteorology, predicted a 10/10 storm and now has all the authority of a mate who texts to say he’s started seeing an absolute 10, only for her to have six toes, racist tendencies and a glut of açai-centric photos on her Instagram. Pull your head in Mark, and remember that neither storms nor people are objects for you to place a numerical value on, and however excited you may be, they’ll both let you down and flood you with nothing but broken promises.
Though one cannot fault the wetness of what has transpired, or perhaps more accurately perspired, over the past 30 hours, the meek attitude of the low-pressure system reveals a mild-mannered storm cell that has not reached its potential. Had the storm spent more time studying and less time fooling around in class, it may well have been a lawyer, a banker or an architect.
Instead, it finds itself oppressively circling and holding back people who are actually going places, and thus far refuses to accept its reality which, based on what we’re seeing, involves heading south to a desolate, metaphorical wasteland in which to see out its days and eventually dissipate into nought but the memory of a foggy failure.
I award you no points, and may Zeus, God of Thunder, Lightning, Rain, Humans and so forth, have mercy on your bedraggled soul. 4/10.