no shortage of fun and games

Pup, Pup, Pup.
What were you thinking?
Apart from running yourself out, there is only one more cardinal sin in test cricket: being bowled neck and crop without offering a shot.
Dear oh dear oh dear.
The look is not good.
Probably a good thing that Michael never turned around to survey the wreckage of the woodwork - he'd heard all he needed to hear in the death rattle - and just headed straight for the pavilion.
As always, there's not much to do in Melbun after Xmas; everything's shut, so might as well go the cricket.
More than a quarter of a million folk over the course of four days thought it was a good idea.
Either that, or smash in the windows of the Prada store on Collins St at 1:30am Boxing Day, and loot the shop, as passers-by scoop up gear the robbers had dropped on the footpath and take off, or perhaps get involved in an all-in brawl between rival mobs of A-League soccer supporters, cracking pool cues and chairs over each other's heads at 3:30am, before the game, that night!
No shortage of fun and games in the Athens of The South.
Utterly unbelievable that the Engerlanders could lose the unloseable test, having sqaundered a priceless 51 run first innings lead, when they could have put Straya completely away on the third day, no trouble.
It didn't look a tough proposition for the Poms to set a winning target way beyond 300, which would have been very hard, if not impossible to get, until you come to the realisation that their noodle is totally fried.
The Massacre in Melbourne was never in doubt
Still, both sides were afflicted with "frail batting".
It's now plain for all to see that Clarke worked out Cook during the winter disaster in The Heart of the Empire, and determined that he would mess with the Pommy skipper's head in the summer.
Worked a treat, as it turned out.
Two Poms go completely mad, give up, and go home - we are talking the No.3 bat and the front line spinner, here.
At this stage of proceedings, Captain Cook must be entirely off his rocker - with any luck Pup would have sent around a couple of blokes in white lab coats to his hotel room to strap him back into his Jason Recliner, and give him a hospital-strength brandy.
Strategically outplayed by Captain Clarke throughout the entire series to date; Clarkey uses every trick there is in the well-thumbed tactics book.
Marvellous sledging also...Joke Johnno v Serial Pest KP Pietersen when the southerly buster hit and plastic bags, tumbleweeds, unidentified objects, and hollowed out watermelons began rolling across the ground, causing the precious batsman to back away from his guard and put his hand up.
JJ will probably get away with fielding the ball off his own bowling and chucking the pill in the buffoon's direction, but Pup wasn't that interested in pulling Mitch in, or telling him to behave himself.
"Stomp 'n' snort all you like son, just let 'em loose, and I'll come between you and the umpire, if needs be."
The way it's going there won't be any need for weak Bamfords, just let the players go at it hammer and tongs, and any contentious disputes about possible dismissals can be referred to the man on the couch with the telly on his lap.
Always pleasing to see the old blokes go well.
Pup at 32 [fine captaincy], Hadds at 36 [dug the team out of a huge hole), JJ at 32 (top-shelf hostile pace bowling), Ginger Rogers at 36 (match winning ton), all had outstanding games; Bailey at 31 being the odd man out.
Bill Bailey might just be not up to test standard, which is a pity, as he's an obvious choice as next skipper, but in this day and age, team's can't afford to carry Passenger Captains, a la JM Brearley OBE.
Little wonder they've called Mr Hooly Dooly, at 28, into the 14-man squad for the SCG.
Pup of course was not called upon to do anything at all in the second innings, by then it was the most ignomidable defeat handed to the tourists to date...no quarter given, no prisoners taken...when Straya found themselves handed the gilt-edged opportunity of victory on a silver platter.
Given that the new stand at the SCG, despite all the promises, is far from complete - it reportedly only has half a roof - and the punters who turn up will be treated like offal, as usual - thinking best place for me will be in the magic waters, gazing out over the Tasman Sea, with my trusty transistor wireless tucked into nmy bathers.
Bring on the Slaughter in Sydney.
Let huge Great Whites loom up and launch themselves onto the beach and gobble up all the Poms in Bondi.
Barmy Army decimated in one fell swoop.
"five-nil! five-nil! five-nil!" etc
You know the words.

point at the heavy roller

Jubilationists,

The gigantic tusk up the Pommy runter - no finer sight in world sport.
They've felled a forest for newsprint to mention things like redemption, the best comeback since Lazarus, revenge, back-chat, was Warner over-punished for a glancing blow in a nightclub setting, the remarkable rebirthing of Joke Johnno, unwarranted triuphalism, respect, and the general meaning of that'n'shit; but when all is said an done it simply came down to hard cricket well played.
Losing three tosses in a row, the Englanders found themselves snookered and simply out-played in all departments, with nowhere to go.
For the Poms, it's a case of do not pass go, do not collect $200, proceed directly to Graylands.
Of course, MJ Clarke made next to no contribution with the bat - it was too fookin' hot, leave making runs to others - and in any case, as was pointed out by my spy at the ground "Pup is too busy to bat".
But his superlative captaincy was once again to the fore.
His second innings declaration was a regulation one, but clever, nonetheless.
A 500 run lead can really mess with batsmen's heads, with time, runs and wickets, all still in play.
As is usual, the Strayan Captain was denied, once again - on orders from Lords, what a disgrace - his perfect right to smash open the ridiculous little urn, smear the ashes on the pitch, drop the duds, plop a well formed beige turd on them, hitch up the tweeds, and then point at the heavy roller and say to the groundsmen, "there ya go boys, roll 'em in".
They would have been over the moon, and more than happy to comply with the skippy's request
People are saying it's Pup's finest hour, which it may well be, but he seems to be well aware that one monkey don't make no show.
He never wanted to emulate Punter losing the Ashes no less than three times - Lord knows MJC has been there twice as captain - and besides, Boof is in the house.
Captain Cook's eyes have sunk so far back into his eye sockets that they still look like pissholes in the snow.
No doubt they'll roast a turkey or two on Xmas day at Graylands, with all the trimmings, in honour of the visiting Poms.
A bit off topic here...but sad to hear all these alarming stories about it most likely being the last ever test match at the WACA.
Not really happy with the current thinking of the ICC and CA that says "if it's not a stadium, then it's not a test venue".
Sure, everything is substandard in Perth; long beer queues, drinking fountains and urinals farked from lack of maintenance and overuse, people being triaged out the back for hospitalisation due to heat stroke et al - but isn't that half the attraction?
Old cricket grounds as we knew and loved them were generally hot, sweaty, dirty, shitty places, where people have a licence to pour warm beer on one another and shout out gibberish that they'd never get away with elsewhere.
Nothing wrong with that.
Can still clearly recall the only time the Western Australian Cricket Association ground has been graced with my presence for a one-day international during the America's Cup in '87, sitting in a wicker chair on the balcony of the Member's Enclosure with a full view of the playing field, and afternoon shade, with a frosty glass of Emu Bitter in hand, think it was.
What's not to love about that?
Seems, though, that those days have gone away.
Almost every day, some underpinning slips away.
Dropped by the Front Bar at The Local the morning after the urn was returned.
Found The Philosopher in his usual corner savouring this week's favoured tipple, an ice-cold flute of Seaview Brut, the house bubbly, as he persued the eight-page spread on the cricket at the back of the fishwrap.
Ventured an off-hand remark to no-one in particular that the Poms, with the Ashes are gorn, might as well go home for Xmas and not come back, and was promptly howled down.
The Philosopher remained silent, but a long-time habitué of the bar, who's not known for his deep thought on any subject matter, snapped "NO! That is where you are WRONG, Craven. Dead wrong. Nothing less than five-nil will do, now."
Who's to argue?.

they're going to Graylands

Revellers,

Dropped by the Front Bar at The Local the morning after going 2-0 up with the Annihilation in Adelbrain, and found The Philosopher in his usual corner toying with this week's favoured tipple - a screwdriver with a slice of lemon and a red glace cherry on top.
[Turns out a barmaid had fooled him with a line of nonsense about how cherries are good for you; a health-giving fruit].
Asked him what the name of the lunatic asylum in Perth is, on account of there will be an entire England cricket team in there this time next week in an extremely distressed state after going down 3-0 and finding the ASHES GORN!
Suprisingly, the Philosopher didn't know the answer to the question, so he batted it along the bar until some other sage replied "The place is called 'Graylands'. At Mt Claremont, I think you'll find. One of the finest metal institutions in the country. X-Block is particularly good for the terminally disturbed, apparently".
Tried to get the Brown Bros to join in a rousing rendition of the well-worn refrain "Poms on toast! Poms on toast! Poms on toast!", but they weren't in it, smarting as they were from New Zealand having been cruelly robbed by rain of certain victory over the West Indies.
They were fair glum, eh bro?
In a match chock full of "tipping points" it's difficult to pin-point the one that sent Captain Cook completely bonkers.
Was it is own dismissal in the 1st innings, bowled neck & crop by Joke Johnno [now there's a phoenix rising from the ashes if ever there was one, after his papers were clearly marked "never to play for Australia again" Whappun]?
Or was it Pup's brilliant catch, on the leap in slips away to his right to take out Swann, before tumbling to the ground all arms and legs while still managing to hold onto the ball, to hammer the final nail into the English coffin as JJ went through them like a dose of salts at almost a hundred miles an hour?
Or maybe it was Clarkey's extraordinary 148 under the circumstances, when he was obviously far from 100% fit?
Lucky if he was 65%.
He was forced to largely put away the trademark cover driving, and his chronic case of Shagger's Back meant square cutting and straight hitting was out of the question; too much pain and muscle strain.
Happy and content just scoring most of his runs through his richly rewarding leg side play - there's no finer exponent of the leg glance in the modern game - and just nurdling it off his hips for one's, two's, and three's.
Not his most spectacular knock by any means, but in the context of the match and the series, one of his best; absolutely priceless.
Robbed of the Man-of-the-Match award, for mine.
No doubt he would have arranged to have Arnie's Spinal Tap Machine shipped west for a thorough work out before the WACA.
Or was it Pup's superlative captaincy, with clever rotation of the bowling, relentlessly setting traps left-right-and-centre for hapless Pommie batsmen; always one step ahead of the opposition in the field?
Who knows?
There is no doubt MJ Clarke has very seriously messed with Cook's head - he's at his wits end and is now paralysed into inaction; doesn't know whether he's Arthur or Martha, or whether he's coming or going
After the match, Cook was such a quivering mass of nerve endings that he was unable to speak coherently, and later, the Flower Pot Man wouldn't be pressed beyond describing the recent results as "difficult", but was heard to say under his breath "can't bat, can't bowl, can't field in Australian conditions"
They must be really encouraged by the reaction of the Pommie Press - who've never been known for holding back it when it comes to bagging their own - with the Adelbrain performance variously headlined in the britarse fishwraps as "wretched - weak - timid - gormless."
He's not one to gloat or anything, but The Stats Guru was eager to point out that the winning target set by Australia was more than the England aggregate of runs in the then three test innings to date at that point.
Never mind the fear in the eyes of the Englishmen.
They'd no doubt be aware of the brown paper sandwich bags stuffed full of cash that would have arrived in the Curator's Shed at the Western Australian Cricket Association Ground under the cover of darkness, just to make certain that the pitch is well and truly doctored to suit the home team.
A sideways glance at the weather forecast for Perth for the five days of the match with predicted maximum degrees celsius temperatures of 38, 38, 38, 39, & 37 would leave the pasty Poms frothing at the mouth.
Do idea at all what they think of Day One being Friday the 13th.
But, doubt that the tourists will enjoy the Festive Season all that much.

brouhaha in Brisvegas

Fellow Uncouths,

What's not to love about a brouhaha in Brisbane?
When all is said and done it was the twin tons what done it.
MJ Clarke in partnership with DA Warner.
Never mind the 1st innings, if you play your cards right, there's always a second bite at the cherry in a test match
After MJ Clarke was out to a plodding plod prod to cough up a lolly first time around, very pleasing to see him reply with a well made hundred in the second innings.
Burbs Warner could do what he liked at the other end.
One of Pup's finest knocks, considering.
The bloke is far from fully fit, it's only the fifty grand he spent on Arnold Schwarzegger's former personal trainer's Spinal Tap Machine that keeps him on the paddock - and his mind could be anywhere off field.
Who knows what happens in his dreams when he sleeps.
Superlative leg side play as always, and the cover driving is surely by now in the "how to play cricket" textbooks.
No idea what bat he uses, but when the FX mic captures it, it's a marvellous sound when he finds the meat of the thing, and it rattles away to the boundary.
And the one six he hit reminded me of the one he tonked clean into Mullet Creek over the netball courts from Newcastle No.1 Ground very early on in his first class career with Mark Waugh batting at the other end.
Still on the up as it left the field and went large.
And then there's Clarkey's captaincy in the England first innings.
All the good batting came after Straya had been accused of using "intimidatory bowling" to a leg side field.
When asked on the radio whether he thought the amount of short-pitched bowling was a bit over the top, Allan Border replied "I didn't know that that was still in the rules?".
Always within the Letter of the The Laws.
Won with 381 runs and a day to spare.
18 holes at Royal Brisbane on Monday has been booked by Saturday afternoon.
Make a statement early on, why don't you.
1-0 up in a five match series is absolutely priceless.
The weak poof tourists will struggle to recover from that, mark my words.
Warner should take up psychiatry for a living, when he gives the game away.
Well qualified.
Called the Poms early with "scared eyes", even before the match was a few days old, and then called Trott's final dismal dismissal "pretty weak".
A fine judge of human fraility.
So, Trott goes mad...
Quits Ashes tour with "stress-related illness"
Sent totally bonkers by the experience, and simply can't go on.
Cricket can really fark with a bloke's head, that's for certian.
It's a hard, ruthless, unforgiving game - not for the faint hearted.
Nervous breakdowns in the caper are not a new phenomenon, by any means.
Just ask Marcus Stresscothic.
He'll tell you.
Or Kim Hughes for that matter.
All ended in tears, but mind you, he was at the end of his tether, by then.
Or the England slow bowler Johnny Briggs, who went off the edge of the cliff into utter madness during the course of the 1899 Leeds test match, was admitted to Cheadle Lunatic Asylum, never to emerge from the place where he died young.
Didn't bat in the second innings, where his scorecard is forever marked "absent, ill".
It's bloody marvellous isn't it when the Strayan Captain is fined 20% of his match fee by the ICC for stepping in to defend George Bailey - who'd been threatened by that serial pest Jimmy Anderson with a fight in the carpark - threatening the cocky Pom with having his fookin' arm broken by Mitchell Johnson in the denoument?
Apparantley the obscenity was the issue, otherwise he would have got a medal.
Joisus.
The Bamfords should stay right out it it - the weak umpires have more to do on deliberately slow over rates, which are a disgrace.
If they have the powers to police it, why don't they?
Alice Springs is a wonderful place to send a bunch of hapless, suburnt, psychologically damaged Poms to play a two-day carnival match, where Engalnd's Entertainment Officer Monte Panesar will no doubt be the star turn - before they go on to play on a lifeless bitch, er, pitch, at the ruins of the Adelaide Oval, where millions of runs for not many wickets have been scored of late in first class matches.
Whoever dreamt up that scheduling is an out and out bloody genius.
Prepare for a spot of nodding off and lounge slumbering.
Both sides will be playing for the draw in Adelbrain.
All is well with the world.
Turned over the fishwrap this morning to read that 'Strayan coach Darren "Boof" Lehmann has rejected out of hand a proposal by his English counter-part, the Flower Pot Man, to have a formal meeting to discuss player behaviour and the general madness'.
Reading between the lines, appears Boof has told the clown "nah, fook off, ya git, and go and stew in yr own juice".
Looks like the pasty Poms are going to have the time of their lives in Central Straya:

Alice Springs Forecast

Issued at 5:00 am CST on Wednesday 27 November 2013

Warning Summary
Nil.

Forecast for Wednesday
Partly cloudy. Light to moderate east to northeast winds.

Precis: Partly cloudy.
Alice Springs Max 39
UV Alert 8:10 am to 4:30 pm, UV Index predicted to reach 14 [Extreme]

Thursday Afternoon shower or storm. Min 23 Max 38
Friday Afternoon shower or storm. Min 22 Max 37
Saturday Late shower or storm. Min 21 Max 38

loose the bears on the midgets pt II

Brave Beserkers,

Pleasing to hear the Skipper declaring midweek that the selectors are a bunch of jesters, buffoons, and hopeless jokes who under normal circumstances wouldn't be called upon to do anything at all, on account of the "the team picks itself".
No wonder he sacked himself as a selector.
However, Pup forgot to mention that The Board parachuted GJ Bailey into the side as the new Mike Brearley.
Can't bat, can't bowl, can't field, but he's captained every other Strayan team, bar the test side, and hasn't had a lash at the five-day caper.
So, just pick him and hide him somewhere in the batting order so he can learn the ropes, given that the powers that be obviously reckon he's the best current option as MJ Clarke's replacement as the boss, for when the time comes when Pup's chronic Shagger's Back Syndrome finally confines him to a wheelchair, and everybody knows that's likely to be sooner than later.
Precisely what FIGJAM Watson and Joke Johnno are doing in the team is anyone's guess.
Good to see Dave "from the suburbs" Warner back at the top of the order after serving an unusually long time in purgatory for clocking the Root, for which of course, he should have been given a medal.
Burbs will love nothing more than grinding Poms into the dust.
After all, grinding Poms into the dust is among the finest sights in all world sport.
Straya and the Draw are equal favourites at the books for the Gabba, so the home side has got to be some chance of kicking off the whole shebang on the right note, weather permitting.
You have to live in hope.
Loose the bears on the midgets, and let the gaming begin!

i have no answers

Dreamers,

The morning after the Disaster in Durham, remember wandering into the local newsagent and flipping over one of the fishwraps, only to see the back page headline scream in bold type:
MICHAEL CLARKE: I HAVE NO ANSWERS.
And he still doesn't.
Bet he's glad he dropped himself from the selection panel, so he can't be blamed for that part of the debacle, at least.
Despite the appaling result and the loss of the Ashes away, Michael captained the side in exemplary fashion, by all reports, and carried himself with aplomb playing test match cricket for days and days on end, and scored a very good hundred to boot.
But, most unfortunatley, Pup knows that he's rooted.
Heard him on radio interview the other day when he made himself unavailable for India and said "it's been a problem for me since I was 17"
After all those years on the workbench, Shagger's Back has finally caught up with him.
Damn shame, that.
And now, in breaking news, it appears Clarkey is "under a cloud" for the first test in Brisbane, ":if you ask my physiotherapist".
Deary me.
Imagine my mild astonishment to find, on the day after the AFL Grand final, on switching on the digital telly, a one-day cricket match between NSW and Tasmania being beamed into my loungeroom live and direct from the beautiful Bankstown Oval.
The Blue Bags played a swag of test players and won easy.
Nice, unexpected start to the summer.
However much you hate Poms, you have to admire the sheer cheek of the most disreputable club in the whole world, the MCC, and the selection committee at Lords, for picking Monty "Farkin" Panesar to go to the Ashes Pt II, as the touring clown.
Monty had what Wisden described as a "poor domestic season, both on and off the field" and yet he gets picked for the Australian tour solely on the strength of his solid reputation for annoying the bejus out of Australians.
Jibber, jibber, jibber.
Nothing but trouble that bloke, if he plays a game; otherwise he can just wheel out the drinks trolley and the tray of gin and tonics at tea, and know his place.
To his credit, though, at least he's not Harbhajan Singh.
Luckily, Straya has a very effective weapon in the fight against the Panesar Scourge in the form of Dave Warner From The Suburbs.
Provocatiion is Dave's long suit, and he can't wait for the first opportunity to get right up Monty's nose, or any other Pom that happens to come near him, Root, chief among them.
He's got form there, with the knock out left-arm jab to the snout the preferred option.
Did time for that when he should have got a medal.
Warner has a a pathological dislike of Poms in all shapes, colours and sizes, which should be encouraged.
So he can, must, and will, open the batting, just to teach the arseholes a lesson.
FIGJAM can go suit himself.
How a player so useless could dupe the selectors for so long is beyond me.
Does he have pictures of them?
Found myself in an easy-chair the other day chatting with some people who know about these things over a couple of beers when the subject of Watto came up.
The Stats Guru mentioned in passing that SR Watson holds the all-time world's record for the most number of times out in the 40's in test matches, and is close to it out in the 90's.
As he said "speaks volumes".
Seems the team, the powers-that-be, and most fans have written off losing in England as a bad joke, a freak abberation against a mob of dirty low-dog cheatin' bastards.
Some truth in that, but there might be more to it than that.
No idea who Straya will throw up as an XI, given that there is not a lot to work with.
But, hey, the sun in shining and you can only dream of a repeat of 06-07, enjoying being thrown out of pubs for baiting Poms and for just singing "five-nil! five-nil! five-nil! five-nil!".

So, the Swans buy Buddy Franklin in a "shock, audacious move".
Never mind the cries of moral outrage coming from the backs of high horses south of the border, where apparently the sky is falling in and it's the end of the world as we know it.
Wot?
It's well known the AFL gives the Swans an extra million dollars a year in salary cap for "living expenses", on account of Sydney is such an expensive place to live in [the fact that it's not - you can live very well here on the cheap - apart from outrageous housing costs - is another kettle of fish] so, what do the Swans do?
They go out and buy the best available player on the free market for a poultice, with a fair premium thrown in.
It'll cost 'em plenty.
And the Mexican clubs didn't see it coming?
Wot?
Don't give me that.
Then they have the utter cheek to cry foul when everyone knows full well the Swans have done everything by the book.
Funny that the non-Melbourne clubs aren't exactly screaming their heads off about it; they well remember how Sydney cleaned up the Tippett Scandal for them with a minimum loss of face.
Ironically, Tipsy Tippett would be spewing, just having been diddled out of a job.
Little point in having two half-to-full forwards, both with huge ego's that wouldn't fit through a normal doorway.
Mummy wasted no time in signing a three year deal with the GWS Pygmies the very same day, Jesse White has made his intentions very clear that he wants to go home to Melbourne, and poor ol' Sam Reid will take whatever he can get, that's if anyone will buy damaged goods.
They'll keep the Mad Canadian, The Ugliest Man in Football, and Spida Jnr occupied in the ruck, and as insurance policies, just in case Buddy is injured or suspended, again.
Clever stuff from the Swans who had the deal all sewn up months ago in complete and utter secrecy.
Obviously, the Melbourne spies aren't doing a very good job.
The "oh, I can't make a decision before I win the Premiership for Hawthorn" was a very convenient decoy, while the GWS bid for his services was the ideal red herring to drag across the path.
All very expensive smoke and mirrors.

the fat lady sings

Blud Bros,

While they may very well have been gallant in defeat, the Swans had no hope from the opening bounce - anyone could see that.
Wrestled out the game early and then monstered.
The Dockers should have been five goals in front at quarter time bar their nervous kicking, but got that far to the good at half time anyway, and realised they wouldn't be beaten and called it quits.
Game over at the long break, and Fremantle sensibly saved themseleves for the Big One, and pretty much stopped playing by the time they got to three-quarter time, safe in the knowledge that it was never in doubt.
Any impartial observer would have have seen it coming.
Swans kept on winning in the second half of the season despite having half the team in Sick Bay sitting about in hyperbaric chambers watching cartoons, so it was little wonder Sydney struggled all year against the other sides in the top four.
And you only have to look at the voting patterns among the Bamfords for the Chas. Brownlow , as strange as they are, to see that the Hannebery Kiddie and Son of Gary polled well early, but fell away in the arse end of the season.
Really, a miracle that Sydney got as deep into September as they did under the circumstances.
Mighty effort to back up that far as reigning premiers, having been written off by the Melbun fishwraps.
Noted that SC Horse got a bit emotional on interview after the game, and why not - he's never experienced decisive defeat in a finals series until now.
He'd put his heart and soul into it for another year, and came a cropper at the second last hurdle.
Little doubt he takes it personally.
At half time the bush telegraph in the corner of the lounge room chattered into life.
It was my spy at the ground.
Tore off the tickertape message that read "Assistant coaches on the phone confirming the flights to Florida".
Happen to know a rabid Dockers fan, a long time resident of The Golden West who has a pathological hatred of the West Coast Eagles; so you can imagine, after 19 years, the amount of cocking of the snoot that's been going on over there.
In gracious tones, he told me before the game, "don't take it too hard Craves, at least we'll save you the time and trouble of having to play Hawthorn again".
The commentariart on the telly kept banging on about how "we've never seen defence like this".
Poppycock.
They obviously weren't old enough to be at the 1987 VFL Grand Final - the one and only decider at The G to be graced with my presence.
Rolled up on the day on crutches with a mate who had his head swaddled in bandages on account of he'd just had a melanoma cut out of his forehead - we played the poor cripple act and soon had tickets to standing room that the scalper couldn't sell.
But that's another story.
If memory serves me right, Carlton's David Rhys-Jones won the Norm Smith Medal for closing down Robert DiPierdomenico.
Rhys-Jones hardly touched the ball all day, but every time Dipper came near the pill, he'd barrell him into the turf and spent the rest of the day annoying the shit out of him, thereby stopping Hawthorn's star play-maker from having any impact on the game whatsoever - and that was more than enough to be Best on Ground.
Now that's "defensive pressure".
The GLW shed a tear or two on the full-time siren - and who can blame her - but she said "I'm only upset for Jude".
She was his biggest fan.
Not so much that he played 300+ games or made the most tackles of anyone to play the caper, ever [now that's "defensive pressure"], she was captivated by the elegant style and grace of the way in which he played the game and generally conducted himself.
A genuine, dead-set ornament to the game.
With the Bolton family now fully in retirement, the chances of seeing the likes of that mob again would be rather slim, you would have thought.
A magnificent photograph attached of Jude on the hoist being carried off Subiaco Oval sedan chair-style, with Rhino Keefe weeping uncontrollably, while Odd Head's expression just says "he's farkin' heavy, but he's my brother".
On interview after the game, Bolton, J. was asked what he was feeling like after his last game, to which he replied...paraphrasing him..."I'm utterly rooted, the body is completely gorn, that's why I retired".
That reminded me of The Great Marty Mattner, who gave the game away mid-year to have an immediate hip replacement [both knees can wait a bit] so he doesn't spend his dotage in a wheelchair.
So who else?
Surely the Ugliest Man in Football, LRT, would be seriously considering retirement with the trot he's been having over the past couple of years.
There might be a couple of others doing the same, and what on earth do you think The Great Goodes Train is thinking.
Surely he wouldn't be able to battle his way through and survive another pre-season?
He may well have played his last game.
Doesn't strike me as sort of player who would go through the torture of having to train himself up again just to have a swan song, he's knows he's good, and is not much interested in adulation, but he's not afraid to speak out and tell you straight up what he thinks.
Problem is he doesn't know what he thinks about hanging up the boots at the moment.
Rhino is a prime candidate for the Jason Recliner and Rick Shaw is seriously getting on in years.
So they will have to buy and draft wisely to keep the rythmn of yoof & experience going.
Tipsy is a work in progress - and will probably be for his entire career - and they'll likely trade Sam Reid as a crock for another used tall in a bargain basement bundle with a couple of others, and they will delist a few youngsters to make them free agents.
The Football Dept won't make mistakes there.
The Youngest described the Swans as having "an elegant season".
The Grand Final will be anything but elegant; a very dour, low-scoring, tackle-a-thon that won't be pretty to watch.
Might do something else.
Relectantly, sheepishly, poked my head through the front door of the Front Bar down at The Local on Mad Monday.
Found the Philosopher in his usual corner nursing a brandy, lime & soda, still reading Sunday's paper.
He picked up a keno pencil and circled FREMANTLE DOCKERS in the score box, poked at it with his bony finger, and said "now they've got history with Sydney, there's always next year".
And left it at that.
The Fat Lady has sung.
That's all she wrote.
So, what's more to say?
Cheer, cheer.

FREMANTLE: 2.9, 7.11, 11.12, 14.15 (99). Goals: Walters 3, Pavlich 2, Fyfe 2, Suban 2, Crowley, Duffield, Neale, Barlow, Ballantyne.
SYDNEY: 2.1, 2.2, 5.5, 11.8 (74). Goals: Rohan 2, Cunningham 2, Jetta, Parker, Bolton, McGlynn, Pyke, McVeigh, Hannebery.
At Subicao Oval.
Crowd: 43,249

And so endeth another season of the Winter Game wire - now into its 7th year on the net [the first two years are lost in the mists of time].
It's been fun.
Thanks for all the suggestions, comments, corrections, drunking ramblings, and downright abuse over the course of proceedings.
Now we move on.
The Summer Game will be upon us sooner than we think, so you can only dream of grinding Poms into the dust.

deep into September

Loyalista,

After last week's unwarranted pessimism, it was never in doubt.
So, the top four are left, as it should be.
There's no winning it from 5-8, and the double chance yet again proves to be priceless in the supremely simple finals system that's been in employ for many years now.
To keep yr opposition scoreless in the Championship Quarter - not even a miserable behind, zip, nothing - would have to be very rare indeed in a finals match.
But then, after the coach had told you to take yr foot right off the pedal, you fail to trouble the goal umpires yrself in the final stanza.
Surely, in finals, that would have to be a unique scorebox since records were kept.
The Stats Guru has been searching high and low, far and wide, for another instance, and can't find one, so that'd have to be that then.
The Guru thought that it was salutary to note that the six losses the Swans had suffered during the regular season were as follows: Hawthorn (twice), Geelong (twice), Collingwood, Port Adelaide plus the stupid pesky draw against Fremantle.
Sharp on the abacus and prone to juggling the principles of probabilty, the Numbers Bagwan pronounced "so they're due for a win".
Especially when they come in through the back door and find themselves deep into September, and one game out of the Big One.
After copping a right bollocking last week from Longmire on the training track, the Swans got back with the program and just played the sort of game they play best; carry no passengers, take no prisoners.
In the exact opposite of the weekend previous, the Swans banged in five goals to bugger-all in the Champo, and it was game over.
There were any number of candidates for "goal of the year" during the course of the match.
Chief among them was Bolton's spectacular effort on the stroke of quarter time.
Jude somehow managed to garner the ball with one hand on the run on the left half forward flank, and finding that he had no-one, or anything else, apart from the goal square and the big sticks to kick to, he just hoofed the ball onto the boot and gave it a good hoist from 50 yards out hoping for the best.
The pill landed about 15 yards out from the posts, bounced, and then wobbled, flibbered, and jibbered in an erratic manner, all the time losing momentum, before it just rolled across the goal line and came to rest at the goal umpire's feet, who was standing over it looking at it as if it was a newly discovered nugget of gold that he'd just found.
One second later, the quarter time siren sounded
Tippett was at his fragile best, subbed out of the game early in the first quarter after doing a mischief to his leg.
So the Football Dept's hand was unexpectedly forced, as expected.
Tippett off, Jetta on.
SC Coach Horse got Jetta on the phone and explained a very old fashioned idea to him, that he obviously cottened onto.
With Tipsy the Man Mountain, gorn, coach needed an entirely different kind of full forward compared to what he had - a goal sneak.
A masterstroke from Mr Ed.
Told him that he really didn't need to run about that much, rather just anchor himself to the goal square and pick the crumbs off the back of the high-flying pack.
A speccy when Jetta did just that; picked up the ball in his right hand, pivoted through 90 degrees and then some, and kicked a super smart goal from 3 yards out with his left foot, and then just kept on running past the goal and along the boundary line so fast that his team mates couldn't keep up with him to slap him on the back.
He was happy enough as it was, by the look of the beaming discus on his face, incredulous even to himself that he'd just done that.
Brilliant!
Odd Head McVeigh had the blinder of the year, for mine, led from the front with an astonishing Captain's knock - just seemed to bob up everywhere all over the ground as if by magic and never put a foot wrong - to be Best on Ground by the length of the street.
The Great Tadgh Kennelley sounded a relieved man on the ABC radio commentary, admitting in his lilting Irish tones near the end of the match that he had "been nervous all week, I was more worried about winning against Carlton that I am now about taking out Fremantle".
No doubt he'll be in concert with most Swans fans, but they, like him, will still have to reach for the heart pills this week.
Back in the day, SC Roos used to take them over to Perth a couple of days before the match and install them in the same block of holiday flats with a small pool, somwhere out of the limelight, near Subiaco Oval.
It appears the accomodation will be the same as it ever was, and they'll pack them all into economy.
But when the full time siren sounds after The Prelim, Longmire will make it his business to make sure the Boeing will be warming up on the tarmac to take them home without delay on the red-eye special, on account of if you win away and deny the home side their first Grand Final appearance, you would very likely be run out of town in any case.
And they've gone barking mad in Freo too boot, with the local council painting the main street purple.
Still, SC Horse would have lit his pipe at Sunday morning smoko by the magic waters at the Coogee Baths, and gazed out to sea thinking that he was looking at the wrong ocean, knowing all the time that serious business needs to be done on the other side of the island.

SYDNEY: 3.3, 8.6, 13.8, 13.8 (86). Goals: Parker 3, Cunningham 2, McVeigh 2, K.Jack 2, Bolton, Kennedy, Jetta, O'Keefe.
CARLTON: 2.3, 4.8, 4.8, 8.14 (62). Goals: Waite 3, Betts 2, Gibbs, Armfield, Robinson.
At Olympic Stadium, Homebush.
Crowd: 37,980.

three brown eyes

Screaming Believers,

Hawthorn will in the flag.
No question, no argument, in the dilly bag, fait accompli, home & hosed.
Which ever way you look at it there is no other winner and the rest of them might as well go home and forget about it.
After a carefully crafted game of two halves, they whip-sawed the Swans by eight goals and then some, in the finish, with no Franklin, no Rioli.
That's putting a mortgage on the Premiership, for mine.
The score box, which never lies, said both sides had kicked only four goals each to half time.
There was no indication that the floodgates would open from the start of the Champo, with Hawthorn running in four quick goals on the back of extremely poor kicking by Sydney; every time they kicked it out of defence more often than not it landed casually in the arms of a Hawthorn forward and well like, it was like, you know, gifting them goals on a silver platter.
As my spy at the ground telegraphed through "not very clever of Sydney to play their worst Championship Quarter of the year in this one".
Banged five goals to one in Q3 and it was game over.
Then there's the vexed question of who is Sydney's best team, just at the minute?
You'd have to question the wisdom of playing the Jetta Kiddie, who is obviously well short of a run.
The Football Dept would have to seriously consider not going with him again in the finals, but their hands might be forced by the fact that there will be no Goodes, no LRT, no Shaw, no Reid, and god knows who else, for the duration.
The Stats Guru noted that there were no less that eight Swans players who didn't manage to get their possession tally into double figures during the entire course of the match and added "you can't even hope to beat half-way decent sides carrying that many passengers, and Hawthorn aint no half-way decent side"
Coach Horse will no doubt thrash those players, who shall remain nameless, on the training track this week while scratching his chin wondering what to do.
Still, having squandered the saloon passage, there is no doubt that the Swans have the better run into the big one.
After the cards fell unexpectedly on the first weekend of the finals, they don't have to play Hawthorn or Geelong until the Grand Final, and just have to knock off Carlton this week to be one win out of The Decider.
Didn't really matter who lined up to play Sydney, given that Richmond and Carlton bashed the crap out of each other, and would have both pulled up sore.
Not to mention that Judd is playing on half a leg.
Of course, the Double Blues are mere pretenders as they sneaked into the finals via the back door on account of the tawdry Essendon business, so you'd expect the Swans to put them to the sword in the pointy end.
The genuine problem, the clear and present danger, which SC Horse would no doubt be thinking long and hard about at Sunday morning smoko, is Fremantle at Subi.
Rated the Dockers from the outset, and weren't they the ones who threw a spanner in the works with the draw against Sydney, who, as predicted, lived to rue the day that that one got away.
They'll remember that, and try to put it right
Now, the road is long and the road is hard, but if they can manage that, then they're still on the Shining Path.
But a lot of water has to be passed between now and then.

HAWTHORN: 3.4, 4.7, 9.9, 15.15 (105). Goals: Gunston 3, Hale 2, Roughead 2, Hill, Lake, Anderson, Breust, Shiels, Bailey, Spangher, Puopolo.
SYDNEY: 3.3, 4.7, 5.8, 7.9 (51). Goals: Tippett 2, Rohan, White, Jetta, Pyke, O'Keefe.
At Melbourne Cricket Ground.
Crowd: 59,615.


Who would have thought that The Great Benji Marshall would play his last game of first grade rugby league, his 201st for Balmain, in some godforsaken town in Far North Queensland, on the very same day that a former star for NSW in the State-of-Origin caper, Glenn Lazarus, otherwise known as The Brick With Eyes, was elected as a PUP Senator for Queensland?
The Hon Senator Brick has a brilliant mind, sharp as a steel trap; so look forward to his tremendous contribution over the next six years to the lengthy debates on the floor of the Senate Chamber, given that his public speaking form over the course of his football career indicated that he couldn't string a sentence together.
No one ever asked him to be a commentator.
But, he'll least bring back the biff to Parliament House.
You wouldn't want to run into the Brick barrelling down some dark alley in the Corridors of Power late at night, with Clive Palmer flailing in his wake, all arms and legs, with the eyes lit up like lighthouses.
You wouldn't get up in a hurry.
But, let's put that digression aside.
No one imagined that the Tigers would hold the Cowboys to 22-all after 50 minutes, and then find themselves beaten by a cricket score.
Symptomatic of the season really.
Not that the score mattered in the grand scheme of things, anyway.
Poor ol' Benji, giving the game away with nary any of his legion on loyal fans in the ground.
You would have had to be the hardest of the hard core of his most ardent admirers to make the effort, still there are Tigers fans everywhere, so there would have been a handful in to witness the denoument.
An old mate of mine likened Benji's last game to Mark Waugh batting in the second innings of his last test match, with a handful of ground staff and pressmen, and a couple of stray dogs and a few chooks that had wandered onto the ground, the only ones there to see it, before Junior was quietly and unceremonially dropped, with barely a whimper in the papers.
No triumphant farewell for either of them.
Unsurprisingly, under the circumstances, Benji didn't have a very good game, by all accounts, in stark contrast to Matty Bowen who was bowing out for good after a million games for the Cowboys over the years.
Bowen had a blinder and hoisted his small children onto his shoulders at full time, competely content to give the game away.
Benji just ran down the race with everyone else.
No fanfares on the trumpets for him.
And then there's Scotty Prince, who of course was Benji's partner in crime in engineering the Miracle Year '05, who called it quits and hung up the boots after an astonishing 400+ games in 16 years in the caper.
The difference is that Prince was let go by Balmain the year after winning the Premiership in "the worst decision made by the board of any football club, anywhere, ever" [quote coach at the time, SC Sheens] and then went onto to be a highly paid journeyman before washing up on the shores of the Brisbane Bronco's to play out his final days.
Scotty was hoisted onto the shoulders of his team mates at full-time and carried around a packed Lang Park, sedan-chair style, in salutation.
No such priveledge for Marshall.
On interview after the game, Marshall said "I've had a wonderful career, and I'm grateful for that, but it will be sad to reflect on it".
Don't know quite what he means there; shouldn't he be happy, or has he realised early that he's pulled the wrong rein?
Never mind.
A worthy life member - who will ever forget the jink, the step, the weave at the height of Benji's powers?
Not me.
Maybe not a scholar, but very certainly a gentleman, and an ornament to the game.
Despite Marshall's ignominous exit out the back door, he will always have my respect.
And who can blame him, at his age, for going home and claiming the generous pension on offer from the Auckland Rugby Union Club?
Tigers of course need to make some assiduous off-season buys of seasoned players to slot straight into first grade as well as continuing their worthy policy of investing heavily in juniors and tying them up to good contracts, but money will be too tight to mention, so it could be many years in the wilderness, before they can nuture, or buy, the players that will be needed to be competitive again.
Mad Monday was a quiet affair by all accounts, and Coach Harry must've parked himself in a banana lounge by the hotel pool and gazed at his navel, knowing he has a bit of work to do - that's if the Board decide to keep him on.
A very difficult team to follow this year and a bitterly disappointing season by any measure.
Found myself in the Enfield Produce Store on Mad Monday buying a 20kg bag of chook feed, trademarked Poultry Supreme...ironic that the Eastern Suburbs Chooks did go top and were awarded the JJ Giltinan Shield...and ran into the old Wests supporter who works there.
Spied him, fixed him with a bead and just said "Tiges?", we both shook our heads and then simultaneously said to each other "ah, well, there's always next year".
Pinkie Wish.

NORTH QUEENSLAND COWBOYS 50. Tries: Ulugia (3), Bowen (2), Lui, Taumalolo, Thurston, Winterstein. Goals: Thurston (6), Bowen (1)
WESTS TIGERS 22. Tries: Tedesco (2), Simona, Sironen. Goals: Marshall (3).
At Townsville Football Stadium.
Crowd:19,519

Bleachermen,

It was no surprise that there wasn't a single Hawthorn supporter on the major event bus when it caught up with me.
Then, at the second last stop before Homebush in Enfield, he got on.
He was a boy of no more than nine years old, kitted out in the full Hawks merch, from head to toe.
And a smug little shit he was too.
He was trash-talking the Swans and suggesting that he was going to see Hawthorn in a mere training run.
He also appeared to suffer from St Vitus Dance; couldn't stay still and was constantly hopping from one foot to the other while bagging Sydney from here to breakfast.
There was no-one on the bus who wanted to give the kid a clip over the ear more than me, but some of them had probably read the book "The Slap" and concluded that there was no future in hitting small children.
But, Lord Crikey, it was most uncalled for and very annoying.
An easy walk through the front gates and slid into the best seats in the ground in the Members, on the eastern wing with the centre square right in front of you, with no more than a dozen steps to negotiate up and down.
Brilliantly designed, the Cathy Freeman Stadium is still as good as it was the day it was was built.
The only thing wrong with the place is the beer.
Undoubtedly the worst served at any ground in the country; outrageously priced, excreable, undrinkable, worse than gnats' piss, are words that come to mind; little wonder the punters shake their heads and ask "why is it so?".
Luckily we managed to smuggle in a few thermos flasks full of goon past the scant security detail, so we never had to shell a clam at the bar, and were well served with cheap BYO shiraz-cab thoughout
It was clear to everyone at the ground the Swans were playing a game of ducks and drakes from the outset.
And who could blame them?
Let the Hawks win and take the Minor Premiership and play them again next week; far, far better than beating them and allowing Geelong to go top, and then have to travel to Kardinia Park, again, in the opening round of the pointy end.
Longmire is a clever man.
After a serious first half, Coach Horse had seen enough there to engender real confidence in a finals campaign when the blowtorch is applied the belly.
He could see that his side was more than a match for the Hawks, so he told them at half time to just play out the Champo as it comes, and as it happened it was honours shared.
Then he told them to take the pedal right off the metal in the last quarter, given there was no significance at all in what the scoreboard said at the end.
Swans were never in any danger of finishing higher or lower than 4th.
Sandbagging the strategic advantage at its finest, just as they did last year [and we all know what happened then].
Was looking forward to seeing Tippet play in the flesh for the first time, but, alas, it was not to be.
Tipsy was named in the starting side in The Record, but never played on account of some mystery bogus ailment that he picked up at the last minute, when in fact he's as fit as a fiddle.
The Football Dept had been warned when they bought him that he could be knocked out by a half-way decent well-directed fart, so, best to wrap him up in cotton wool for the finals, when they will be needing him to kick bagfulls, without fail.
More clever thinking.
Take no risks.
Little wonder everyone else was also in on the lark.
Fremantle "rested" 12 players and so signalled their intention to throw the game against St Kilda, just to give the opposition's retiring superstars a winning send off, Geelong must have been playing on valium if they could only beat Brisbane by a point - no Elephant Juice happening there - Carlton must've handed over big wads of cash in brown paper bags to beat Port by a point, and as for Essendon...it's best not to go there, given we haven't heard the last of it.
And then Adelaide won by the length of the street against an opposition who'd just had enough for one season.
The Good Lady Wife accompanied me to the ground, and as is her want, she complained bitterly that the bloody biased bastard Bamfords had "three brown eyes. two out front and one out the back of the head so they could more easily look over their shoulder at things that weren't really there".
Moreover, she claimed they were colour blind, and unable to distinguish the red and the white, while all the time knowing exactly what a bacon and egg sandwich looked like.
Still, she grudgingly conceded that at least one Bamford made the right call when he took Buddy Franklin's name and number plate and wrote them down in the little pocket book officialdom keep in their shorts
Can't say that we had a good view of the incident, given that it happened in the pocket on the other side of the ground, but people around us with good long vision and/or binoculars began suggesting that Buddy had had indeed been reported.
All we could see was the aftermath, as the entirely defenceless Malceski went down like a sack of potatoes having disposed of the ball well before he was violently taken out, and he didn't get up in a hurry.
Much later, the footage on the newsreels revealed it it be a shocker - in rugby league parlance it would be described as a malicious late high tackle, which in the normal course of events, would be a send off offence, and a month cooling your heels, as it damned well should be.
It's always been a mystery to me why there has never been a send-off rule in Australian Rules.
It just encourages serial offenders, and doesn't a well known pest like Buddy have form in that regard?
Dirty bastard.
It would have been a dead set scandal if he got off scott free, but as it is he got rubbed out for a week.
While that's a self-serving sentence with a nod to finals gate reciepts, the Swans aren't unhappy about it.
Never look a gift horse in the mouth
You have to admire Malceski for selflessly taking the fall for the team, and the idiocy of Franklin, for single-handedly taking out the Hawks number one artillery piece for the all important 1st Qualifying Final.
Magnificent work there, Lance.
Nick - you'll get a medal.
Took the train home, given they put on, as always, the super efficient 2000 Olympics transport service - for free - to quickly clear the crowd.
World class.
As we rattled around the loop track, the mood among The Red and The White was ebulliant.
Never mind the bollocks, they'd seen enough to tell them the Swans will go deep into September, even though almost half the players who appeared in last year's Grand Final didn't take the field.
The reinforcements will do fine enough.
The phony war is over.
September is a whole different bottle of mussels.
Stand by for some thrilling, ruthess, cut-throat football.
Cheer, cheer, the double-chance at the back-to-back.

SYDNEY: 5.2, 9.2, 13.4, 16.4 (100). Goals: White 3, Parker 3, Rohan 2, Mumford 2, Bolton, K.Jack, Mitchell, McGlynn, Pyke, Morton
HAWTHORN: 2.2, 7.5, 11.6, 17.10 (112). Goals: Roughead 4, Franklin 2, Gunston 2, Breust 2, Birchall, Lewis, Hale, Puopolo, Anderson, Lake, Mitchell.
At Olympic Stadium, Homebush.
Crowd: 37,980.

Yet again, didn't see a frame of the Tigers game, on account of it was played simultaneously with the Swans game.
Had no spies at the ground, either, so no telegraph messages and they don't put the rugby league progress scores up on the big screen at the AFL.
Not on yr nelly.
According to the fishwraps the next morning, remarkably, Balmain found themselves 18-0 to the good after 14 minutes, after one of four, yep that's right, four Burgess brothers - all of them Poms - who were playing for South Sydney was sin-binned for ten minutes for some mysterious infraction that no one but the Bamford could fathom.
The Tigers then, by all accounts, made a good account of themselves, before they were eventually run over by the Rabbitohs in the denoument, and Souths went top.
The Rabbitoh's have got a good chance of winning the Premiership, given that their nearest rivals aren't travelling that well leading up to the pointy end
Good luck to them - it's been 42 years between drinks.
Reports suggested there were strange scenes at the end of the game to mark the Great Benji Marshall's 200th game.
Along with The Best Leb in the Game, the great man was given Life Membership of the Balmain RLFC, and got some kind of football in a glass case for his trouble.
Seems Benji said "thank you very much" while looking at the thing quizzically, saying to himself "what the fark is this?"
The Club Chairman leaned over his shoulder and explained "It's fruit for the sideboard, Benji. Something you'll want to show your grand children".
So that's that then, admitted to the Balmain Pantheon with all the other greats, and then out the back door.
Ducked my head around the front door to the Front Bar at The Local on Monday morning and was surprised to see that the Philosopher wasn't in.
The barmaid said he'd been in earlier and had had a stiff gin & tonic to calm his nerves, but after reading the political pages and the washup article from the Tigers match, he snapped a Keno pencil in half with his bony fingers, tossed the paper on the floor in a desultory fashion, said nothing, and went home.
Someone in the bar who'd also seen him said he, like the world-wide legion of other Balmain fans, in their despondancy, can't wait for Mad Monday to come soon enough.
The off-season beckons.

WESTS TIGERS 18. Tries: Simona, Tedesco, Murdoch-Masila. Goals: Marshall (3).
SOUTH SYDNEY RABBITOHS 32. Tries: Reynolds, Farrell, S.Burgess, Merritt, L.Burgess. Goals: Reynolds (6).
At Sydney Football Stadium.
Crowd: 14,891.

September starts now

Fellow Hopefuls,

So, after being towelled up last week, the Swans give the Saints a ten goal football lesson.
Of course the Melbourne commentators on the crystal bucket - who jump at every chance to take down Sydney - kept on saying that the Saints were giving them a real good run for their money, when it was clear to anyone having even a casual look at the thing that the floodgates were going to open after half time.
A seven goals to one Championship Quarter certainly shut them up good and proper.
Did like Tipsy being subbed off in the last quarter having been told by the coach "five goals will do, son".
Tippet was aghast after they popped the bib and the fluffy dressing gown on him and he sat down on the bench, only to have Rick Shaw give him a big cuddle and a few licks on the ear before sticking his tongue down his shell-like.
Kurt wasn't expecting, or wanting, that kind of affection from a team mate who is patently as mad as a hatter.
He got subbed out in favour of Gary Rohan, an old fashioned name playing in his first match in 400+ days since busting his tib and fib just above the ankle in a horrific shocker.
It's the very same injury as mine, which is now 26 years old, and it doesn't get any better over time, let me tell you.
A miracle of modern medicine that he actually got back on the park after such a long, long, time in agony.
Unlike the Wests Tigers winger Taniela Tuiaki - an explosive player who could beat Usain Bolt over 20 metres who had a ton of promise and could have been anything - until he broke his lower leg in multiple places in the exact same place.
Taniela never came back, and now walks with a limp and stick, just like me, relying on handouts from the Injured Players Benevolent Fund.
Fortunately, the bloke does have one string to his bow in his retirement - he knows how to cook a whole pig over charcoal like no one else.
So he remains the caterer of choice among the South Sea Islander lads across the league, and as a result has many friends to look after him, also.
Can feel for those blokes.
It goes without saying that the Swans' September starts now.
When a mate of mine realised they were playing Geelong away this weekend he said "as you well know, Craves, Kardinia Park is no place for humans".
The fool who took me to the gawd forsaken joint six years ago now for one of the worst experiences of my entire life, goaded me by inviting me back there this weekend.
He called me an utter whimp when the invitation was declined.
Joisus, just like last time, ice would form on the collar of my jacket as the sleet comes in off Corio Bay on a gale, my balls would shrink to the size of sultanas and disappear up my sphincter that's just contracted to the size of a pinhead, all the time expecting death from exposure was imminent.
And that wouldn't be the worst of it.
That's not even mentioning the endless indignities that the mongrel Cats fans would subject me to; all for no good purpose.
Winning in such a hell hole isn't easy as the place seems to torment visiting players for some unknown reason, but the Swans do have a little form down that way over the years; unlike every other team who routinely get beaten there by the side that has by far the best winning streak at home of any club in the caper, ever.
The Stats Guru is being driven out of his mind by the number of combinations of abacus beads, and is left wondering exactly what the finals strategic plan actually is, but reckons you can leave that in the capable hands of SC Horse, who worked the numbers brilliantly at this time last year.
The fact that Sydney have the best percentage in the comp by a whisker and the issue of the two premiership points due to the draw against Fremantle, only go to complicate the matter at hand.
But you have to be confident that the best football brains are on to it, and you can only rest on the hope that early spring will be fruitful.
Someone, forget who it was, reminded me this week that it's best not to get ahead of yourself.

SYDNEY: 2.3, 6.6, 13.9, 18.10 (118). Goals: Tippett 5, White 3, McGlynn 2, Bolton 2, Lamb 2, K. Jack 2, Pyke 2.
ST KILDA: 2.3, 4.4, 5.6, 8.11 (59). Goals: Steven 2, Riewoldt 2, Minchington, Curren, Hickey, Lee.
At Sydney Cricket Ground.
Crowd: 26,730

Finding myself otherwised engaged on Monday night, never did see a single frame of this game, even by accident on the newsreels.
Very good thing too.
A complete schemozzle by all acounts.
As my spy in the miserable crowd of dead set lunatics who were fool enough to turn up to the ground telegraphed through after half time: "the Lord is working overtime to try to help us - but, all to no avail".
After the match there was talk among some die-hard loyalists that the Great Benji Marshall should just be dropped forthwith, given that he is way past caring.
Reliable reports suggest he did nothing in the entire game, just lurked in the backline like a bad smell, refused to allow himself to be tackled, and so hardly touched the ball.
Well, sorry folks, him being dropped aint going to happen.
No matter what.
That was his 197th game for Balmain.
So, barring injury, he will play his 200th in the last game of the regular season and be admitted to the Balmain Pantheon as one of the all time greats, before he scurries out the back door to greener pastures on the other side of the Tasman, where rugby union is a religion and rugby league is a mere sideshow, crying "thanks for all the fish!"
It's Dark Days indeed in Tigertown.
Unless they can wisely spend the million bucks they'll save by letting Benji walk, the days in the wilderness will last for many a year.
They could do without the mistakes of the recent past and not try to buy the worst team money can buy, and invest the clams instead in the Yoof of Today.
And that doesn't even take into account the fact that there's no more cash coming down the chute from Campbelltown any more, and the old Balmain Leagues Club just off the Balmain Rd, close to the Room Full Of Mirrors, in Rozelle is long demolished and nothing's been built in it's place, so there's no income from the pokies.
That can only mean that money will be too tight to mention.
Worse still, there seems to be no-one at all who is remotely capable of leading the Grand Old Club to The Light on The Hill.
In fact, there is no Light on The Hill in the short-to-medium term.
Swung by the Front Bar at The Local on Tuesday morning, and it was business as usual.
The weekend's football had been forgotten.
Found The Philosopher in his normal corner, rustling the political pages of the paper, with a look of resigned indifference.
He saw me, pushed his spectacles down to the tip of his nose, took a bite out of the stick of bitter cucumber that was standing up in his Bloody Mary and said "looks like the Glory Days have well and truly gone away".
And just left it there.
That's all she wrote, so what's more to say?

SYDNEY ROOSTERS 56. Tries: Jennings (2), Mortimer (2), Pearce (2), Friend, Tupou, Williams. Goals: Maloney (10).
WESTS TIGERS 14. Tries: Sironen, Tedesco, Tuqiri. Goals: Marshall (1).
At Sydney Football Stadium.
Crowd: 8,393.

snatching defeat from the jaws of victory

Frustratees,

This is becoming very painful indeed.
The veterans in the side played well, but the young blokes really didn't have much of a clue in the big league, and who can blame them?
It looked for all the world like Balmain would win for a change, right up to the last minute when they were still in front and then, lo and behold, they somehow conjoured up letting the Eeels go in for a try with just seconds left on the clock.
A classic case of snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, if ever there was one.
And does anyone need reminding that Parramatta is running Stone Motherless Last in the competition?
Nobody, not even the Stats Guru, dares to look at the length of the losing streak now, given there is no point in it.
Everyone, from the new Board down to the lowliest, down-and-out supporter, is clutching at straws.
And of course, there is no shortage of scapegoats.
The Club Secretary walked out the door mid-season saying he was just fed up with everything, had it up to here, and was simply sick of it.
Then they put in an interim CEO who appears to have next to no idea.
So it was down to him to announce a "structural review" of the Football Dept.
After the Western Suburbs Magpies deserted the sinking ship, it seems the new Board wants to throw its weight around.
And so they let go no less than three Assistant Coaches last week, including SC Simmons.
Why you would sack a bloke like Roycie is simply beyond belief.
Utterly unfathomable.
Let's face it, the bloke is a premiership winning coach in his own right, and has a huge football brain - one of the biggest in living memory.
Never mind that no one really knows what Mr Simmons does for a job, apart from the fact that he is the best Welfare Officer that any club could ever have.
He's never been his biggest spokesman, that's for sure - given that he can't string a meaningful sentence together on interview, which have always been rare on account of appearing in the media is not his long suit.
He's prefered for many years now to stay in the shadows, and out of the spotlight.
Roycie takes it upon himself to look after the player's off-field interests; to make sure they learn to read and write, not spend their money hand over fist, that everything is all good in their home-lives, that they're emotionally stable in their love-lives, tries look after any drug freaks, problem drinkers, and other sundry miscreants, and makes it his business to keep their names out of the papers at all costs.
In all the time Simmons has been at Balmain in his two stints at the club, don't know that any player has ever been reported in the fishwraps for misbehaving in public, let alone becoming known to police.
So what on earth is going on??
Say it again, just insane to let go someone who's worth his weight in gold.
Complete madness.
SC Simmons' only crime appears to be that he has been a very close mate of SC Sheens, which is not de rigour at the club anymore, given that the former long time coach still draws a salary from the Tigers on the basis of the "barbed necklace agreement", and he needs to do nothing for it, except sit back in his Jason Recliner and say "See, I told you so".
And now there's talk that Coach Harry might be shown the door after just one season in the top job.
Not that much of it has been his fault.
How do you deal with a horror injury toll early in the season, a club wracked by infighting and instablity beyong your control, your Number One Player of the last ten years deciding to walk and switch codes to the Auckland Blues Rugby Union Club, letting quite a few underperformers go to the English League comp through the year, and you still end up with a mob of players who don't care anymore in end?
You sack the coach, apparently.
Not immediately but inevitably, as surely the "structural review" puts him in an untenable position.
If all that sad and sorry tale of woe is not bad enough, by a quirk of programming, the same bunch of blokes are now asked to play Eastern Suburbs, who have just gone top after a large purple patch, this Monday night at what will be a deserted, wind-swept and gawd-forsaken Sydney Football Stadium.
Lord, help us.

PARRAMATTA EELS 26. Tries: Toutai (2), Mullaney, Paulo, Sio. Goals: Paulo (2), Mullaney (1).
WESTS TIGERS 22. Tries: Koroibete (2), Nofoaluma, Simona. Tries: Marshall (3).
At Parramatta Stadium.
Crowd: 12,013.


The Stats Guru has been on the telephone, with alarming news.
He reckons he's been giving the abacus bit of a whirr, and the beads are telling him that in the space of a week, the Swans have gone from being a chance of going top through no fault of their own, to a point where the Minor Premiership is now all but unattainable, and what's more, they are in clear and present danger of missing the top four altogether, given the teams behind them coming up their runter have much easier runs home, and Sydney has to play the top two teams before season's end.
It wasn't the game they wanted to throw.
No sireee.
Plenty can be discerned by the fact that Tipsy kicked six for the second week running, but they still lost by a fair margin, with only another four goal kickers, when they can usually boast blokes who put it through the big sticks in the double figures.
There were a few Sydney players in front of the centre square, who shall remain nameless, who were found out, and you are never going to win if you get stonkered by six goals against you in the Championship Quarter in a low scoring match.
No doubt Coach Horse would still be preoccupied in his waking hours with the central question of who is his best team?
Wouldn't be surprised if he dreams about it, also.
Despite being squashed by Collingwood, Longmire would be well aware that if he can come up with the definitive answer to that one, then they are of course in with a damn good chance of going a long way in September.
Teddy Richard's played in his 200th.
200, eh?
Fancy that.
There's no doubting Teddy is a strange insect, and he'd have to give the Ugliest Man in Football a good run for his money for the title, but in any case would be a clear runner up.
And just like LRT, he'd be as astonished as anyone that he's played that many games.
Never ever seen Richards smile on a football field, ever.
He has that autonomon, lockjaw look on his alien-like face down pat.
Despite the visage, he's apparently a very jovial chap who is well regarded as an outstanding clubman; always looking out for his mates and happy to help out with the kiddies.
Just don't mention the Marty Feldman eyes.
Teddy would be completely unaware that he's probably first picked most weeks; he's the sort of backman any club would die to have.
He's the kind of player who digs trenches across a line somewhere between half back and full back and puts up barbed wire entanglements in the back pockets and says to the opposition blokes "now, try getting the ball through that", before he kicks the grenade back into their lines.
Richards is probably the best backline reader of the in-coming ball in-flight in the modern game, a superb mark, and a master of the spoil, with black belt.
And yet he's flown under the radar for his entire career.
It wasn't for nothing that he was picked across the half back line in last season's All Australian Team, and that without ever rating a single mention in the Melbourne papers.
Ted Richards - a scholar and a gentleman, and an ornament to the game.
All power to his oars.

SYDNEY: 4.4, 5.9, 9.10, 10.11 (71). Goals: Tippett 6, Bolton, Kennedy, K.Jack, Shaw.
COLLINGWOOD: 2.4, 6.6, 12.10, 14.16 (100). Goals: Elliott 3, Reid 2, Thomas 2, Sidebottom 2, Cloke 2, Grundy, O'Brien, Pendlebury.
At Olympic Stadium, Homebush.
Crowd: 42,627.

run over by a Flinders St tram

Supreme Optimists,

The Sydney juggernaut continues to roll on.
And why shouldn't it?
That's a purple patch right there - five wins on the trot.
They're playing even better than they were at this time last year, and we all know what happened from there.
SC Roos certainly thinks so on the television commentary, and for one famous for over-analysing the game, you'd have to trust his judgement.
And doesn't Sydney love a winner?
Before the opening bounce, my spy at the ground pushed through a telegraph message: "Jesus! The joint is jumpin'. The place is brimmers!".
Don't know how they could fit in that many people in a ground under renovation - some creative accounting at the turnstiles, no doubt - but hey, it was as full as a boot for the first time this season.
The two games to come out at Cathy Freeman Stadium at Homebush should attract fair whopping crowds.
In a game in which the "best" line in the scorebox in the fishwraps should've read "All Played Well", Jesse White would have had to have been Best on Ground for mine.
And this, from a bloke who wasn't even really considered for first grade in the early part of the season, but saw the door left ajar by injury, and barged on through to the senior ranks in a first-rate team.
On that showing, he'd be hard to drop, and people like Sam Reid will find it difficult to get a game when they emerge from Sick Bay, in a side bristling with in-form talls.
Opposition coaches must be as worried as hell thinking what on earth they can do about the likes of the "Mad Canadian" Moike Poike, not to mention Spida Jnr, and then there's Mummy, who's having a bit of a rest.
And then there's Tippett.
Interesting to note that Longmire decided to play Tipsy across the half forward line this week, even poking up as far as the wings, so he could drift down the ground into the forward pocket, as required.
Tipsy found it to his favour with all of his goals coming from snaps.
Tippett's contract no doubt has a clause in it that would say "must kick goals every week", so if he can boot three a week, week in, week out, he'd be fulfilling his side of the bargain, and would be well worth having in the side.
It seems the strange insect has been told by the "Sydney culture" that there's no need to be a show pony in this town...just shut up, do what yr told, and get on with the job.
SC Horse would no doubt be saying on interview "we're just taking it one game at a time", but surely in reality he must be poring over the well-worn gin-soaked plans as he gets deep into strategic thinking for the finals.
The Boss's main problem is deciding on who makes up his best side, which is a very good place to be.
With West Bullies (a), the now deliciously easy-beat Collingwood (h), and St Kilda (h) to come; the brains trust can then play ducks and drakes with Geelong (a) and Hawthorn (h) to finish regular home-and-away, prepared to do what they did last year and throw a game if needs be to get the optimum place on the table now that top four's seemingly assured, bar a catastrophic derailment.
A dream run really, an elegant repeat of the season previous, when you have the wins and the percentage to position yourself just as you bloody well please.
Longmire might as well just bow down in the last game of the season, let the Hawthorn win at a leasurely pace, save his players legs, and then say to the Hawks "won't have to see you again until the Grand Final".
After all, even with the Swans on a roll, it seems like Hawthorn will win the premiership with ease, by the looks of way they destroyed the drug-addled Essendon side on the weekend.
Might as well give them the flag now, and just go home and forget about it.
But, you never know...Buddy might be run over by a Flinders St tram...
Pigs might fly, the sky could fall in, and Sydney could pinch The Flag while no one's looking, again.
Stranger things have happened.

SYDNEY: 5.3, 8.7, 13.10, 16.14 (110). Goals: J.White 4, Tippett 3, Mitchell 2, K. Jack 2, Lamb, B. Jack, Pyke, Smith, Bolton.
RICHMOND: 5.3, 6.4, 8.7, 9.9 (63). Goals: Riewoldt 3, Martin 2, Conca, Jackson, Vickery, M.White.
At Sydney Cricket Ground.
Crowd: 29,738.


Another Monday night, and another night pottering about in Dad's Shed with the wacky MMM radio call coming in loud and clear on the shortwave all the way from Campbelltown Sports Ground.
Shouldn't have bothered to even switch on the crystal set in the first place, really.
Yet another one of those tawdry, miserable, and oh-so-predictable affairs.
And that's not even counting the sheer shitfulness of losing to Manly - at home, no less.
Out muscled, outplayed, outsmarted.
Simple as that.
You've got to feel sorry for poor old Robbie Farah playing in his 200th game for Balmain.
Playing on a ground he doesn't particularly like, and through no fault fo his own, The Best Leb in the Game finds himself captaining a team of try-hard B-graders that's simply not up to standard, is not of his choosing, and who just can't cut the mustard this season because of the unfortunate set of circumstances what with the horror injury toll and all, not to mention general instability from the board and executive down.
That, in his 200th.
Oh dear.
Here's a bloke who's just been admitted to the Balmain Pantheon along with all the other greats, living and dead, has won a premiership, covered himself in medals and laurels throughout his glittering career, and as if to just put the fruit on the sideboard in the denoument of his playing days, has represented New South Wales in all three State-of-Origin games this season.
He was nothing left to prove in the caper.
Robbie Farah; a scholar and a gentleman, and an ornament to the game.
And then there was Liam Fulton in his 150th game.
A bloke who has never got so much as an an inch of newsprint in his entire career; just one of those old-fashioned no-nonsense tradesman-like forwards who goes about his business and gets the job done week in week out, year after year.
He considers himself very fortunate to have made a nice tidy living out of a thing he loves doing for such a long time, without coming to the attention of the authorities, let alone anyone else.
Don't think Fulton has ever been the subject of interview; can't actually remember the last time he spoke in public with his own lips, if he ever has.
No idea what his voice sounds like.
Then there's the third and only other survivor from the 05 Miracle Year Grand Final still playing for Balmain - the Great Benji Marshall.
Obviously his heart is not in it, and he just can't wait for the season to end.
You'd have to wonder if Benj has burnt his bridges too early - announcing that the Tigers offer wasn't big enough or long enough and he would walk away from rugby league into the loving arms of rugby union.
Only problem is the rugby union clubs of both sides of the Tasman aren't exactly queueing up to hire him at the right money.
No other club in league would want him, and there's now no going back at Leichhardt given that he's decided to quit the club in such an undignified fashion - to go where?
The back of the long snaking line at Centrelink?
Oddly, its the first time Manly have played at Campbelltown in 15 yaers.
That suggests that perhaps the Silvertails haven't been exactly welcome in that part of town.
And who can blame the Western Suburbs Magpies for that, given their history?
Apart from being beaten by Canterbury, there is nothing worse in world sport than being towelled up by Manly.
The Stats Guru was ambivalent last week about the plain fact that given the log jam that is the middle of the NRL table, the Tigers still had a mathematical chance of making the top eight, but in stark reality were more likely to carry off the wooden spoon.
No word on what yet another loss means, apart from obvious oblivion.
Found myself stumbling in through the doors at the Front Bar at The Local having not dared to put my head in there in the last week on account of being dusted by the Worriers the week previous.
That would have just been an invitation to be being ridiculed and laughed at by the Brown Bros.
Found The Philosopher in his usual corner nursing this week's favoured tipple, squinting at the political pages in the paper with a puzzled brow.
On inquiry of the young barmaid about what he was having, she told me she'd already lectured him on the inappropriateness of the Manhattan as a breakfast drink, but she said he wouldn't be told, and it wasn't worth arguing the toss.
Mentioned the word "Tigers" on approach, but the Prof put his hand up as if to stop me continuing and just shook is head, rolled his eyes and said "Yes, but I've seen worse".
Which begged the question "when?", but there was no point in asking.

WESTS TIGERS 18. Tries: Nofoaluma, Farah, Simona. Goals: Marshall (3).
MANLY-WARRINGAH SEA EAGLES 36. Tries: Lyon (2), Horo (2), Matai, Cherry-Evans. Goals: Lyon (6).
At Campbelltown Sports Ground.
Crowd: 11,162.

for the sake of completeness

A death in the family will preclude comment this week.
It is, after all, only a game.
For the sake of completeness, the scoreboxes are included:

WESTS TIGERS 14. Tries: Lawrence, Nofoaluma, Simona. Goals: Marshall (1).
NEW ZEALAND WARRIORS 24. Tries: Johnson (2), Hurrell, Mannering. Goals: Johnson (4).
At Leichhardt Oval.
Crowd: 11,436.

WEST COAST: 3.4, 5.6, 6.8, 11.13 (79). Goals: Kennedy 4, Dalziell, Cox, Wellingham, Morton, Darling, Naitanui, Masten.
SYDNEY: 4.4, 10.8, 12.9, 17.11 (113). Goals: Tippett 3, Pyke 2, Lamb 2, Jack 2, Hannebery 2, White, Kennedy, Parker, Bolton, Mumford, Jack.
At Subiaco Oval.
Crowd: 35,166.

a Pup, blind Bamfords, cheatin' Poms, and a Cancer

Fellow disappointees,

Everyone knows that MJ Clarke is a dreadful fidgeter at the crease, but some close up camera work from the Trent Bridge test match shows him up to have an even worse obsession with preening himself in the field as he gets older.
Spends his whole time in the slips, when the ball isn't in play, constantly rearraging himself; the hat, the sunnies, the shirt collar, the buttons and sleeves are endlessly adjusted as if you say "now, do, I look a million dollars, or what?"
Scratching his upper lip where his moustache would be if he had one when he's thinking hard about the state of the game is an interesting new affectation.
Hardly anything to fault in his captaincy, apart from a self-admitted dumb use of the dreaded DRS, especially trying to save his own bacon from being given out caught behind in the second innings.
Surely any batsman would know if he's tickled it through to the keeper; just ask that miserable turd Broad, he'll tell you.
In contrast, Pup's contribution with the bat was poor, by any estimation.
A finely-crafted six-ball duck before being bowled neck and crop in the first innings, and then failed to go on after a slow 23 in the second, just at the moment when a Captain's knock was required
For mine, his chronic dose of Shagger's Back restricts his footwork, so quite a lot of the time he finds himself neither back nor forward to the ball, and that's when yr asking for trouble.
Having judiciously sacked himself as a selector, Pup would've have no say in the inspired selection of the Agar Kiddie, who turned out to be a top bet for all the most unexpected reasons.
A Boof masterstroke, no doubt about it.
But surely 19 is far too young to be nominated as this week's National Hero for falling two runs short of a ton on debut at No.11.
Don't get me wrong, a top knock, without doubt - the kid can bat - and no-one has done it before in the history of the caper, but in the match situation consider it in the cold light of day.
The Childe Ashton made 112 for the match, and got carted for 2/106.
He was a busy man, to be sure, but it wasn't enough to win the match, and he has a lot to learn of course, especially when he's got a Pakistani reffo with the same act as him who they passed a special Act of Parliament for, to give him a saloon passage through to Citizenship to fast track him onto the tour, breathing down his neck.
A 1-0 lead in the five test series is absolutely priceless, especially as the Evil Englanders don't even have to win the series to retain the Ridiculous Little Urn.
No surprise that it emerged mid-week that JM Arthur reckons MJ Clarke called SR Watson "a cancer on the team".
Choice, well-chosen words, those.
At long last, FIGJAM has been found out for what he really is.
Clarkey might as well have added "you know the sort, the kind of slow-growing cancer that creeps up behind you when you are not looking, and then stabs you in the back without warning.".
After the utter utter nonsense that went on in India, Watson should've been sacked, punted, and drop-kicked out the back door without so much as a sausage.
Can't be the only one who lives for the day when the rank no-talent show pony is banished to the back paddock, never to be seen nor heard of again.
Never mind the hype surrounding Agar's heroics, and the gushing pumping up of the "brave effort" to bring the match to a cliffhanger, you have to wonder if the Strayans actually realise that they have been beaten by the Poms, that's right, beaten by the Poms.
Nothing worse in all of world sport.
Well...at least we can be consoled by the fact that Straya was, in the end, robbed blind by blind Bamford's and cheatin' Poms.