They that must be obeyed.

All decisions final, no correspondence entered into.

Above criticism by players, coaches, committees.

The men in charge.

The umpires.

Not a bad mob really.

Love the game as much as us, care about it enough to involve themselves at the elite level.

Whetting their appetites for footy as well as wetting their whistles.

Grown men. Big-hearted men. Entrusted with the responsibility of making hundreds of decisions of all descriptions.

Except one.

What to wear.

Their strip isn't just a comfortable, colourful cozzie.

It's seen as sartorially significant; it's crucial couture, the administration of which could only be competently coordinated, garmentally governed and guided by one autonomous body.

The league.

How thrilled and thankful must be the umps. Regularly relieved of thinking through their threads. Determining dacks, assessing socks, shortlisting shirts, considering colour and shuffling through, shade and hue. The league do it all for them! And if they deem it appropriate to deck them out in riding breeches and tam o'shanters, then by golly jodhpurs and pom-poms it is! Hey ump, bit chilly? Slip these leggings over that leotard. Nice shade of pink, don't you think? And these lab coats allow for a fair bit of movement, throw one on!

Come on Andrew.

They're grown men. They can be trusted with their own clobber, cobber. It's not as if they'd pick a confusing kit close to the colours of the clubs they're controlling. Like yellow. Like hawthorn.

That would never happen.

Would it?

I'm Billy and I'm boiling.