One of the more incongruous images of this, or any other, footy season is Mick Malthouse, one-time curmudgeon-in-chief, wearing his lavish King of Moomba crown and waving to his subjects as he was driven along Swanston St today on a giant throne.

And alongside him was his 'Queen', tattooed TV 'it' girl Ruby Rose. If there was ever an odder couple to grace a Moomba float - or any other vehicle driven along Swanston St for that matter - could someone please let me know, c/- Back Page Lead? I'm not expecting a flooded mailbox.

In fact, those who first got to know Mick 25 or so years ago - from the time he handed over his Richmond jumper and footy boots to the property steward at Punt Rd, and took up the clipboard as Footscray coach - will have trouble reconciling this image of Moomba Mick, smiling and even looking like he was enjoying himself, with the perenially prickly apprentice who started out on his coaching career in 1984.

For those who've witnessed it, the Malthouse journey has been an extraordinary one: from bristling, chippy and paranoid footy-head to thoughtful, considered, Confucius-spouting eco warrior.

It's a measure of his transformation that he was even asked by organisers to fill the shoes of previous monarchs such as Rolf Harris, Johnny Farnham, Bert Newton, Graham Kennedy and Lou Richards, men who loved performing in front of crowds and had that common touch.

A decade ago, Mick would never have even been considered for the role, nor would he have wanted it. In fact, he'd probably have found a tooth abcess or break-out of boils a less painful alternative.

We saw the mellowing of Malthouse when he arrived from the unhealthily self-congratulatory environment of West Coast to Collingwood, where president Eddie McGuire took him aside and explained that his responsibilities as coach at the AFL's biggest club involved much more than taking training and running the show on match day.

He would now be expected to talk to people, embrace the Collingwood fraternity, and try to overcome his noted antipathy towards the media. In short, begin a charm offensive.

Your correspondent was the chief football writer at the West Australian newspaper in 1991 and 1992, when Perth was a one-team AFL town and that team won just about every time it took to the park, and an interesting time it was.

No-one could question Malthouse's ability to coach, nor his ability to inspire loyalty from his players. But sheesh he was a difficult customer to deal with: criticism was read into the most innocuous sentence; 'the media' was always plotting to bring him undone.

It is probably churlish to dwell on some of Mick's behaviour during his stint in Perth, where he was feted at every turn and rarely brought into line by the Eagles' hierarchy. For we all grow up eventually. Suffice to say, he probably looks back on some of those outbursts and rants now with regret.

But everything changed with Collingwood's win in the grand final last year, the club's first in 20 years and second since 1958. That was the moment his legacy was assured and reputation guaranteed. The great millstone had been lifted from around his neck after 16 premiership-less years as coach; his career was complete.

Now, Malthouse is a grandfather, he's comfortable in his skin - he long ago gave up dyeing his lustrous grey locks - and has got nothing to prove to anyone.

And all that was on show today as he paraded before his loyal subjects, and actually appeared to revel in the role. King Mick indeed. Who'd have thought it?