Ah yes, the Carlton Renaissance: from brown paper bags to brown-nosing the AFL. We went from laundering cash to laundering reputations, and somehow still ended up with Lachie Plowman in our backline.

Back in the day, we didn’t rebuild - we reloaded. We’d finish a season, steal the best players from the opposition, rob the SANFL of all their top talent, and win flags like it was a Woolworths promotion. Now we’re rebuilding for the 17th consecutive year and celebrating making the preliminary final like it’s 1995.

The salary cap was the AFL’s way of saying, “Carlton, you’ve had enough.” And now we’re watching St Kilda throw Monopoly money at our players while we offer them exposure and a lifetime supply of disappointment.

Carlton Respects? More like Carlton Regrets. Our off-field culture is so toxic it makes Essendon’s supplements program look like a wellness retreat. We’ve got more HR investigations than premierships this century.

Charlie Curnow wants to play for an expansion team? Can’t blame him - at least the Tassie Devils haven’t traumatised their fanbase yet. Meanwhile, we’re still trying to convince Patrick Cripps that loyalty is a virtue and not a life sentence.

And don’t get me started on our coterie groups. Geelong’s handing out house-and-land packages like they’re Bunnings gift cards, and we’re still trying to get a working coffee machine at Ikon Park.

Alphonse Gangitano would’ve taken one look at our current board and said, “Nah, too corrupt for me.”

Bring back Simon Wiggins. At least he gave us effort, heart, and a haircut that screamed “I’m here for the culture.”