Andrew Webster, Greg Inglis, and a derelict graffiti strewn garbage laden howling dog Melbourne suburb

In the old days, they used to call it a color piece, but in this particular case that description might be a little too close to the bone.

Above is the Daily Terror's splash on its intertubes front page, for a story about Greg Inglis, the Melbourne Storm footballer in trouble for assaulting his girlfriend.

I guess it's hard to have much sympathy for Inglis. After all, he's a big and fierce boy, and thumping women isn't the way to appeal to anyone. Unless you like to see him out on the field thumping other big and fierce boys.

And until you look at the Terror, and you begin to understand why having a tabloid sniffing around you like a rottweiler must make the all the cash and the glory of being a rugby league star sometimes feel like a booby prize.

Notice in this particular case there's a photoshopped in picture of Inglis, looking shifty and furtive while on his mobile phone, and alongside him there's another photoshopped picture of his girlfriend looking somewhat strangely in his direction while furtively tugging at her jacket.

Alongside her is a shopping trolley, which gives all the appearance of having been wheeled into shot, while a wheelie bin in the background adds to the tone of the neighbourhood.

By golly, it's the sort of scene where you'd expect a suburban murder had just taken place. But the real crime is the purple prose of Andrew Webster when you click through to the story Greg Inglis waits to put his house in order:

As soon as you enter the cul-de-sac at the end of Epsom St, the question hits you like his big right-hand fend . . . Greg Inglis lives here?

Empty shopping trolleys sit outside crumbling brick houses with overgrown lawns. Rubbish is strewn across the front of others. Further along, a large noise barrier covered in graffiti muffles some of the sound from the busy Princes Freeway that takes you to Geelong. A crazed dog will not stop barking.

The dog's bark echoes the warning a magistrate gave Inglis before his alleged assault case was adjourned yesterday: Stay away from girlfriend Sally Robinson or face being put behind bars.

Back at the house, the nicest place in the cul-de-sac, is a beaten two-storey townhouse.

Now notice that Webster has committed the crime of mentioning the street name. It took me only a few seconds to locate the house on Google maps (and no, I'm not going to tell you where it is). 

Bang goes Inglis's privacy for anyone from crazed fan to crazed feminist with half a clue about the intertubes. 

Curiously the day the Google van went by the house it was also garbage day, with wheelie bins in the street.

Which brings me to the second point. For the life of me, the Google folk didn't seem to be able to locate much in the way of garbage in their pictures as they drove up and down the street preserving images for the intertubes. Sure there were the wheelie bins, but they seemed to be lined up in the unnerving tidy way you expect in the suburbs.

It seems like a quiet outer suburban Melbourne street, with the alleged Inglis house some distance from the noise barrier hiding the Princes highway. Perhaps not the place you'd chose if you were in an inner west chardonnay sipping liberal or an eastern suburbs ponce, but hey, judge not, lest you be judged.

It's unremarkable, but is that a crime? Perhaps there's some houses littered with garbage - I couldn't see any major mess in the google images - and as for the unkempt, uncut overgrown lawns in front of the crumbling houses, I guess the residents must have embarked on a lavish tidy up to get ready for the day the Google van arrived to take happy snaps - then promptly dropped into a slumber, leaving everything to go downhill until the day Andrew Webster to find a street that was in a state of advanced urban decay.

Oh and as for that graffiti laden wall at the end of the street, here's the google image of it:

And yes, I have excluded identifying features, but again I'm shocked by just how much time the residents must have spent cleaning up the wall before letting it lapse into the shocking state in which Webster found it. Not to mention all that garbage they must have carted away, instead of allowing it to accumulate around the dead end public space often used as a dumping ground.

Now of course I could have the wrong house and street. There might be a duplicate town house which looks just like Inglis's alleged hang out, which I've accidentally stumbled on. But I suspect not.

Which makes me wonder how two people can see a street scene so entirely differently.

I guess the crazed dog that wouldn't stop barking (what a pity Google maps don't have sound) must have traumatized Webster, in much the same way as the dog's bark echoes the warning the magistrate gave Inglis. 

Webster can't believe Inglis would live in such a derelict, run down place:

Not in a million years would you guess a rugby league superstar who last season signed a $2 million contract calls this home.

"We all mind our own business, that's why he's happy here. This area is full of indigenous people, lots of Islanders, so he blends in. I've never seen media - not until this week, anyway," said a neighbour.

Oh did I forget to mention that Inglis is black, and that the media has arrived in force in the neighbourhood? 

Quick get out that shopping trolley, litter the street with garbage (well at least some wheelie bins), make sure the lawns are unmown and overgrown, and let the dogs bark loudly as if they're roaming around an Alice Springs town camp with their ribs sticking from their starving bellies. 

Oh and don't forget to mention the graffiti, that's a major clue.

It's called a color piece.