I pressed a buzzer at the entrance of the two-storey concrete home, and was flabbergasted when Israel Folau opened the door.

"What the ...?!" he said, clearly alarmed. "Bro, what're you doin' here?"

"I'm the clown, mate. I was booked for a party at this address."

Folau called out to his wife, Maria. She came to the door. Folau said: "I told you that Alisi wanted a fairy godmother. No offence, bro."

"None taken."

Maria said: "I couldn't find one, so I improvised. What difference does it make, anyway?"

He grimaced with disgust. "Clowns are freaky, love, especially this gangly one. No offence."

"Umm ... none taken, I guess."

Maria said: "Well, I'm sure your niece won't mind. And it's her party after all. Now stop being so rude and let the clown in."

"Sorry if I offended you," he said, extending his hand somewhat nervously. When I shook it with my white-gloved paw, I beeped a small horn. He yelped, then said: "Bro, not cool."

To be sure, I was an archetypal clown - despite Folau's harsh critique.

The party was held in a large backyard with a lush lawn and a pool. Scores of young children swam and raced around. There was a jumping castle, Shetland pony rides, a water slide, etc.

When I emerged from the house, kids swarmed around me. I took requests for my sole trick: balloon modelling. As I made a dog, I clocked Folau out the corner of my eye. He glared at me, grimacing with disgust. A burly Pacific Islander man yelled out that the rugby was starting.

As the World Cup match between Australia and Fiji unfolded, I was shocked to hear Folau barracking for Fiji - screaming "smash 'em", and springing off a couch and punching air when Fiji scored. People noted him with consternation.

After a while, I opened what I thought was a bathroom door but, instead, saw Folau kneeling before a cross, whipping his bare back with a leather strap: old-school self-flagellation for barracking against the Wallabies, for having "hate in my heart".

His head then snapped around to view me - his alarm morphing into hysterical-shriek horror when I, inexplicably, said in a demonic voice: "I'm the devil's spawn. I'm the devil's spawn ..."

Mark Bode is an ACM journalist. He uses fiction and satire in commentary.