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.
