There's a fine line between a fine mind, and a mindless fine that cross's the line.

And the finer the line the mind of the finer crosses, the design of the fine, becomes not a sign of the time but more a sign that the time of the fine is in decline.

League, do you follow me?

The punitive penny pinching has got to stop!

Sure, every cloud has a silver lining, but the pockets you're lining with silver from fining are clouding the issues of fair-minded forfeiture of funds.

The fines you're flinging are so red hot, they're white.

You have white fine fever!

Late with your paperwork. fine. mucked up your sums. fine.

Late onto the ground. fine. say g'day to the umpy. fine.

Forget to stick the team sheet in the newsagent's window. Fine.

Fine, fine, everywhere fines.

You may well be tickled the till at the tribunal ticks over tremendously but these unfair fiscal floggings are nothing but high-faluting fleecing of funds.

Cleaning out the coffers is cruelling crucial capital comfort for clubs.

You can't win a flag on the smell of an oily rag.

Come on Andrew.

If you don't want Take It Easy to be played as you're introduced at this years Grand Final Breakfast, ease up on the nickel-nicking knees-up, cross the line, and find the time to tame the fines.

There's no time like the present, and no fine, not unpleasant.

I'm Billy and I'm boiling.