a pup on a dog of a boat

Amatuer Sailors,

Did note that Pup's career as an ocean racing yachstman, came to an early, abrupt end.
Not much in it as it turns out for the owner/skipper, Anthony Bell, who said he could "barely afford to have Clarke on board", after the vain and unsuccessful attempt to whip the general public up into a frenzy of anticipation with all the pre-race hype.
The former Strayan Captain would have been calling for the popping of Champagne corks when Loyal was first out the heads, must have thought "this is money for jam", until the fleet was hit by a SSW buster that was packing it out to 40+ knots.
Steerage rooted, didn't get much beyond Jervis Bay, so they took down the sails, turned around, and motored back to Sydney.
Clarkey reckons he had "one or two chucks" while they were still racing, then qualified his statement with "actually there were quite a few of us chucking off the back of the boat".
Suppose that no one had a clue what he was meant to be doing on the yacht in the first place, before he became indisposed.
Owner/skipper Bell would have been banking on the 'appearance fee' he paid Pup to turn out at the Q.L.D. [the "Quiet Little Drink" in Hobart after handicap honours are decided - a riotous all-day invitation-only party involving thousands, the day before the King of the Derwent race. Little wonder they run boats aground in that].
Oh well, back to the nappy changing routine, and trying to sell off his surplus to requirements farm in the Southern Highlands; been on the market for the best part of a year without a single bid from a genuine buyer.
Oops, might have overcapitalised a bit there, Pup.
He'd much rather have the cash in Micheal Clarke Investments Inc.
And he's missed out on a week's holiday wid de boyz at 42 degrees south, to boot.
Hasn't Clarkey got c'est la vie tattooed on one or other of his arms along with carpe diem and some meaningless Arabic phrase?
Perhaps not.
Bugger.
Still rue the day many years ago stumbling into the Front Bar at the The Local, admittedly, looking rather ramshackle, and ordering a schooey of Carlton to settle the nerves.
Noticed The Philosopher in his usual corner reading in his fishwrap something about the general outrage that Tiger Woods was being being paid millions to play in Australia.
The Prof looked at me over the top of his tipple of the day, a dry gin martini with a green olive and swizzle stick in it, then lowered his reading glasses and peered at me again over the rims with his beady eyes and told me straight up: "Craves, no one will ever pay you an 'appearance fee', ever".
He still owes me the martini he never bought me, but sure-as-hell should have, to help me cope with my obvious state of devastation.
Bastard.

And while Michael's back home, there's been some cricket going on, apparently.
Very much enjoyed Usman Tariq Khawaja's 144 in Melbourne, not to mention his 50 odd in the second innings.
What was there not to like about it?
Never mind that it was against what amounted to 2nd grade district bowling.
Usman [or as he's known in some very politically incorrect circles as "The Token Muzzie"] grew up in the NSW system, where the sole aim is to produce good first class cricketers without any regard whatsoever for colour, race, or creed. [Richard Chee Quee comes to mind - as my father would have said "only the second slit-eyed chokie after Hunter Poon to have played first class cricket in Australia" - also a product of the system, 21 games for NSW]
Joisus, even some sexual proclivities can be tolerated by the NSW selectors, as long as it stays out of the papers.
Token knew all the rules of how to pay the game and the system, made his way up on the back of hard work; it's the only way in NSW, where they couldn't care less which school you went to.
Only the cream of very good first class cricketers rise to the top, and he knows it.
Helps if you have talent, also.
Got all the shots.
With his now rare orthodox stance and elegant style he can hit the ball to any part of the ground he likes, but his magnificent legside play is reminicent of a Micheal Clarke or a Mark Waugh - they all just made it look so easy.
And you've gotta love those lofted cover drives that sail over the top of the field and hit the advertising hoardings with a thump a second or two later.
Rarely offers a chance, unless he has a moment of fatigue, a distraction, a bout of laziness, when he's most always given out.
However, you could fear that yet another potentially glittering career could be cruelled by injury - you just never know - how Pup lasted as long with his chronic case of Shaggers Back as he did remains a mystery; something to do with the jewel in the crown of being picked as Captain, they tell me.
Being dropped multiple times by the selectors and being wracked with niggles can drive some ordinary blokes completely and utterly crazy - down to the madhouse for you, Jimmy - yet in some cases it "maketh the man".
Tokes is one of those.

on "the pink stink"

Aghastees,

Pup would never have had a bar of it.
Not one to try to channel Clarkey [he's too busy seeing his accountant, adjusting to having a wee bairn in the house, and learning how to sail a boat to Hobart], but if he was still the Strayan Captain, he would have seen straight through this day/night test cricket nonsense - "the pink stink" - for what it is - a money grubbing excercise of the highest, most flagrant order.
And he'd know.
[Let me explain here. Many years ago, a few of my friends hired a car, in Alice Springs if memory serves me right, and the only vehicle available was a bright pink VW beetle. After parking the car in the motel car park overnight, they awoke next morning to find a huge, freshly-laid, steaming human turd neatly curled up on the bonnet of the car - the vehicle became known, of course, as "the pink stink". Over the years the term "pink stink" has morphed into something that describes anything from a particularly foul smelling object, to any kind of cockup, usually rather minor and of little consequence, right through to a gigantic goatfuck in the affairs of state. Now we can add day/night Test cricket to the list].
Sure test cricket has evolved over time.
You have to remember that when the first Australian [all Aboriginal] team turned up in England in 1868, overarm bowling had had only been legalised for two years, after a long and bitter shitfight over the issue.
When the first Australian test team arrived nine years later, there would have been plenty of underarm and roundarm bowling still going on.
In fact lob bowling persisted in first class cricket right into the 1920's when it finally died.
With the way this pink ball swings which way and that at night, and loops, spins, bounces and goes round corners for the slow men, we might was well go back to the future by playing day/night test cricket with lob bowling on a hessian matting pitch.
At least that would be far more interesting.
The very first test of all was played over three days on little more than a used dog track, but as the art of pitch curation developed and the draw became the most common result, they went to the completely opposite extreme of timeless tests, which people soon got sick of, not because of the tedium, but because it took time as a factor out of the game - before they mucked about forever and finally settled on five days.
Got no problem with shortening test matches to four days, like other first class matches, but the first pink ball test lasted two days and five and a bit hours - and it was as boring as batshit.
Bugger the result, let's face it, who wants to watch a bunch of fairly ordinary bowlers get away with 1st degree murder?
Test cricket has long been a delicious combination of runs, wickets and time - all utterly unpredictable - long periods of slow play interspersed with extreme excitement and high drama.
You can even look at it as a Shakesperian play in five acts if you wish, and the Indian Hindu sect that has cricket as its cult take it to another level altogether.
But since when did the actual time of day become a major tactic in the Captain's arsenal, with the vast majority of the wickets being taken at night, when the batsmen can't see the pink ball - they can't even see the seam on the ball at any time of day.
To play the four innings would have been even shorter, except for the number of dropped catches - a direct result of the inability of the players to see the pink ball off the bat at any time, especially if it's hit hard into the slips cordon.
Even Skipper Smiffy dropped a few, and he must have among the best set of catching hands in the world game.
There was nothing unequivocal about Smiffy's disgust then he turfed what ordinarily would've been a sitter.
As for the true traditionalist and the die-hard, they would have been horrified by the demise of Australia's cream-coloured uniform; in day/night test matches, everyone plays in white.
As an experiment, it's a complete dud.
Could not stand how the commentators on Channel Grime continuously talked up the idea as if it was the best thing since bottled Scotch.
Really?
How many people pay Warney to say it is "amazing" "fantastic" "brilliant" ad nauseum.
He thanked everyone bar his grandmother for coming up with or encouraging the "most innovative" concept the game has ever seen.
Sickmaking.
Only Chappelli refused to tow the company line...you could hear in his voice he was desperate to mark the whole shooting match down as an epic fail.
Nearing the end of the game he actually said "at no time in this match has any of the batsmen had a genuine chance to really get settled".
Blasphemy! According to the edicts from on high.
Then there were the fudged crowd figures.
On the first two days official crowds of 40K+ were posted, but My Spy at the Ground says 15-20 thousand of those were out the back getting pissed as parrots in the salubrious surroundings of the manicured lawns of the Members relaxation area, [the number of Members far outweighing the number of available seats] featuring comfortable garden chairs and tables, fully stocked bars, picnic hampers etc.
Most, if not all, of these people never saw a ball bowled.
For the great unwashed in The Outer, they would have spent hours pre-loading in the many pubs that surround the ground before getting to the game for a 2pm start.
After the so-called "dinner break" [no one seemed to know what the breaks were actually called, probably because no-one at the powers-that-be had bothered to think up names for them], the entire crowd was as the newt.
It was if the good/bad old days had returned, when you allowed to take your own esky full of beer onto the old hill at Adelaide Oval, but at least back then they had the decency and sense to impose a 24 can limit, per person.
Yet it still only got a touch messy after tea.
My Spy at the Ground had vivid stories of hoards of legless drunks pouring and stumbling out of the ground.
Of course, you'd expect to see a few pot-bellied piss-suckers at any game - nothing wrong with that - but in this day and age - the whole crowd?
If it aint broke, don't fix it.
If it is, as the money changers in the temples seem to think it is, and you can't fix it with a good length of fencing wire, then it aint worth fixing.
And as the blokes who hired the pink VW soon found out - you can't polish a turd.

only three nags can win the Melbourne Cup

My dear departed father's System for picking Melbourne Cup winners {"The System"} has been around since the Great Depression.
The System has thrown up close to 40 winners since the war, so that's a strike rate of more or less one in two Cups.
After an unusually prolonged drought, The System finally found a winner in Protectionist last year.
But who can forget the glory days with winners like Delta Blues, Ethereal, Brew, Rogan Josh, the legend surrounding Doriemus, and of course Tawriffic, who had the race won at the turn and saluted the judge at 33/1!?
The System usually identifies a handful of runners that can win the Cup, and this year has found three - then the choice is yours; or back all three, or trifecta them, or do nothing, or go mad with it.
Rob's modus operandi was to back the longest priced runner until your nose bleeds, and keep the others safe.

So here's my little annual form guide to the only three nags that can win the Melbourne Cup:

4. OUR IVANHOWE [GER] 56kg. 6yo h. T: L&A Freedman. J: B.Melham. (22). Well travelled import who has raced in England, Germany, France and Japan. Noted mudlark who revels in heavy conditions. Has form to go on, and came into The System with an impressive 3rd Caulfield Cup. Should get the trip. Extreme outside barrier and weight will play against him, but in a canny stable and set for this race a long way out. Will be among the favourites on a wet track. Respect.

10. TRIP TO PARIS [IRE] 55kg. 5yo g. T: E.Dunlop. J: T.Berry. (14). Out-and-out stayer. Won on all kinds of tracks in England, and at this distance. and is nicely in at the weights. Rocketed into the system with an eye catching 2nd Caulfield Cup, running on, looking for extra distance. Only a short preparation this time in, but will stay the two miles. Ideally drawn. Deserved second favourite behind Japanese raider. Should be prominent at the Clocktower, and right in this at the finish.

19. PRINCE OF PENZANCE [NZ] 53kg. 6yo g. T: D.K.Weir. J. Ms M.Payne. (1).
Dour stayer. Rank outsider in this, having been spelled for almost a year before this preparation. Now has plenty of miles in the legs.Trip a query. No form to speak of until he crept into The System almost un-noticed with a creditable, if plodding, 2nd Moonee Valley Gold Cup. Absolute boil over if he wins this, but at his best on soft going and has the country's best female hoop on board who knows her way around Flemington. Back on the nose to win a small fortune.


Enjoy!

doctored pitches & hopeless selectors

Aghastee's,

With the footy finals upon us -- let us not forget; the horrible 3-2 mess, as it quickly gets expunged from the brain when the reality of it is too frightful to contemplate.
But, as Glenn McGrath will tell you, and MJ Clarke is likely to agree after recent experience, when in England, it doesn't really matter if you win or lose that Stupid Little Urn [because you'll will win it back again, at home, anyway].
So long as you win at both grounds in London.
The Poms can have that provincial rubbish that masquarade as cricket grounds.
Straya doing OK on that score given they haven't been beaten at Lords for a million years, and love playing at Kennington Oval.
And Ooh Aaah knows a thing or two about Lords [always said there should be a a small bronze bust of McGrath near the Grace gates].
The Poms have got a curious set up going there.
While the Marleybone Cricket Club is by far the most important and famous club in the world, why is it that the ranks of its Membership are chock full of "cads, shysters, and bounders" with rather poor reputations.
Lords began as, and remains, a drinking club with a cricket problem.
It's long been known that The Oval has a much better class of clientle, both among the Membership and the mug punter who pays his quids at the gate.
They know their cricket there.
So why is it that a Membership at Lords is the most prestigous, most sought after, and most expensive in the world?
It's because the ruffians still write the rules [or The Laws as they like to call them]; the ICC can go sod themselves as far as they are concerned.
End of story.
[while they're at it they should shorten test matches to three of four days, like it was back in the days of yore]
If only Pup was in form [38,4,7,32no,10,3,10,13,15] Straya would have won the Ashes easily, but he was done in by doctored pitches.
Everybody forgets that Broad had done absolutely nothing in the previous 12-18 months, but give him a tailor-made green-top pitch that seams, swings, and bounces all over the shop like a mad woman's breakfast, and suddenly he's a world beater.
What a disgrace.
Broad topped the bowling aggregates, but the next four best were all Australian.
How's that work?
What a complete and utter fraud, perpetrated, nay flaunted, on the part of the Poms. .
The Ashes were also lost on the back of Straya's Hopeless Selectors.
Wrong-headed decisions on who they would play in each match were mired in selectors mistakes.
Series losing mistakes.
What's the betting MJ Clarke, more than once, led a team out onto the ground that he thought wasn't quite right?
Pup obviously believes in "the buck stops here", and sensibly took the rap and retired immediately [never mind that he was going to anyway].
But what about RW Marsh?
The bloke is as blind as a bat, and surely should have fallen on his sword, along with the three faceless men, by now.
And then there's DS "Boof" Lehmann.
All he seemed to do was wander about the dressing room, looking worried or glum.
They lost out, so sack the lot of them, for mine, then someone else can start looking after the next generation.
Whatever Michael decides to do in retirement, standing in the queue at Centrelink won't be one of them.
The first thing Pup did on the Monday after The Oval test?
Register Michael J Clarke Investments as a company, with him as the sole director.
Who would have thought that Pup's other nickname was "Moneybats"?
MJ Clarke's taxable income for the financial year '14-'15 is estimated about $5M, with current assets, realized or not, amounting to roughly $17-$18M.
Wanna buy his estate in the Southern Highlands, complete with cricket oval?
It's on the market, at the right price.
Too busy changing nappies to manage a farm.
The fishwraps reckon that Pup is "the most cashed up cricketer to leave the game".
Nonsense.
WG Grace woud have given him a real run for his money in today's cash.
There's also some irony then, that Arthur Morris - "The Elegant Genius" - and probably the best left hand bat to ever play the game - died during the Oval test at the age of 93.
Whenever anyone asked Morris "Arthur, what was the biggest thing that you took out of cricket?" he always replied "Poverty".

on the retirement of MJ Clarke

Canine Fanciers,

You could read the writing on the wall as clear as day.
The day before MJ Clarke left for England he announced that he and his broad were expecting a wee bairn.
The fact that he'd retire from Test Cricket at the end of the Ashes tour, win lose or draw, was stating the bleedin' obvious.
He'll be too busy changing nappies in the seaside mansions and sheep stations that he owns, to do much else [let's face it - Pup has now been reduced to selling toothbrushes] while his "beautiful wife" goes about her business, [whatever that is].
The immediate thought was "about time, Pup".
He's coming to fatherhood fairly late in the piece - he'll be 55 by the time the kid is 21.
And he'll probabaly be in wheelchair due to his chronlc case of Shaggers Back.
Not even importing a half-million state-of-the-art machine for the US of A, that shoots gamma rays through your back while rolfing it at the same time, or some such nonsense, did jack shit for it.
Reckons he picked up his first dose at age 18 or 19 and it steadily got worse through his early 20's before it settled down a tad as he underwent a wholesale lifestyle and image make over to make him more appealing to the public [a monumental failure].
This was back in the day, when he still drove a Ferrari, wore sharp clothes, and dined in only the finest restaurants; a surefire winner with the ladies.
Then it became chronic -- as he'll now be able to feel it for the rest of his born days.
"Oh shit, love, me back's gorn, again" - or something like that.
Didn't spend long in first class cricket until he was announced to the world as the great white hope and picked for Straya way too early, and then the wunderkid was very shabbily treated by the selectors, dropped not once, not twice, but three times before forcing his way back in though the weight of first class runs.
In the denoument The Board got sick of it, and told the selectors "Bugger you lot. We'll make the bastard captain if Ponting ever decides to retire".
He was a fine leader of men on the field [maybe not so much off the filed -- buty only the blokes in the dressing room can have a genuine opinion about that - Simon Katich has definite viwews for one - and you know what everyone said about Bradman].
His was a masterful tactician on the field, constantly on the go, never let the game drag, and was well known for a "sporting" declaration or two.
In short, he had a cricket brain the size of a watermelon.
No one in their right mind would think he was anything less than a master batsman [when in form mind you].
Had all the shots.
Although he did have the annoying habit of touching himself all the time - gloves on, gloves off, rearranging his box just to check his dick was still there, the pads had to be just so, the helmet also, and finished off with with tugging at the collar of his shirt - this, between every ball, not just between overs!
So with all the above, why was it that the Strayan public never ever liked him, never warmed to him, never captured their imgaination, never put him close to the pedestal on which national heroes sit?
Who knows?
Perhaps it was his ill-judged first engagment to what's her name -- but somehow thinking it ran deeper than an a woman with ridiculous breasts.
What it was, or what combination of factors were involved, we'll never really know now that he's gone.
Said it before, say it again, but will never forget seeing MJ Clarke play for the first time in the flesh.
He was but a pimpled yoof, not long after his debut for NSW, and well before he was considered for Strayan selection.
It was a Sheffield Shield match at Newcastle No.1 Ground.
Who NSW were playing has been lost in the mists of time.
It was a hot day, the third day if memory srves me right, with NSW looking for a big lead to set a target.
Me and me best mate were sitting in the shade offered by the huge stand of Moreton Bay figs trees, guzzling beers, and watching play from almost directly side on to the wicket.
In comes this kid no one had heard of.
He knocked the ball about a bit for a few overs, then the trade mark shots came out; the leg glance, the crisp cover drive, straight hitting par excellence.
We were struck by just how good his leg side play was, and simultaneously remarked to each other "this kid can play".
Then, out of the blue, Pup dances down the pitch to some hapless spinner who's name escapes me, and smote the ball with one almighty blow.
It sailed high over the head of mid-on, the ball was still on the up as it cleared the boundary rope, then went over the ground's perimeter fence by some distance finally landing on the netball courts out the bck, where it bounced a few times then rolled across six netball courts before quietly slipping down the embankment on plopping into Mullet Creek.
The ground ball-boys went out for a quick look, but promptly called "lost ball" [privately thinking 'we'll go back for that one later as a souvenir'].
We turned to each other and said "this kid can play".
Fell in love with the turd, then and there.
And who was batting at the other end?
Mark Waugh - in the twilight of his career.
Immediately thought Pup would be the natural replacement for MA Waugh - and so it came to pass, not so long afterwards.
With the announcement of the end of his career, people called Clarkey and his career many things ["chequered career", appeared to be the most common word used in the fishwraps].
Don't care.
Still love the the big shit.
Always will.
An enigma, it ever there was one.
Vale MJ Clarke.
We'll miss you.
Miss you bad.
But, the King is dead, long live Smiffy - "the baby-faced killer"
My Spy at The Ground sent through a telegraph message from Nottingham "First innings total 60. Clarke's Nadir".
He couldn't go lower, so by now there was no other option but to say farewell after only 46 matches as test skipper.
The Stats Guru will give you any number of numbers; not only can Pup say he scored a ton on debut [in India, of all places}, fewer still can boast they scored a triple hundred, on their home ground no less - he can dine out on free lunches for the rest of his life on the strength of that alone.
Here's a bloke who's won The Ashes [lost some too], won the World Cup [lost a few too], but in the end there is only one number that matters.
49.30.
His test batting average.
His poor form on the current tour cruelled his average, which was in the 50's before going England.
That should be restored by a big unbeaten ton at The Oval, to bookend his career.
He's due.
Anyone who averages 50, or very close to it, over a nine year career, is automatically admitted to The Pantheon of master batsmen of all time, for mine.
The day after Straya lost the Ashes and Pup announced he was giving the game away, popped my head around the front door of the Front Bar of The Local.
The denizens told me the Brown Bros. were out doing what they were meant to be doing - laying footpaths for the council - but in any case they wouldn't know, let alone care, who Michael Clarke was.
Found The Philosopher in his usual corner sipping this week's favoured tipple, a tonic and lime which a marachino cherry to top it off.
[The barmaid later told me, much to my astonishment, that he'd sworn off the drink].
He shuffled his newspaper which of course featured bold print and large photographs of that Stupid Little Urn and Pup front and back.
The Prof settled on the back page and poked it with his bony finger and said, his voice trailing away:
"Almost every day, some underpinning slips away..."

here endeth the the blog

Loyalists,

After 42 days in hospital, some things are bound to fall by the wayside -- and the football blog is one of them.
I have different perspectives now, and after eight-and-a-half years on the job, I no longer find any pleasure in meeting the Thursday deadline.
The hundreds of posts and the thousands of pirated photographs will remain archived in the cloud at:
http://crazycraves.blogspot.com.au/
Of course, this space will remain open for comment on the exploits of MJ Clarke, particularly in the upcoming juicy Ashes series, but the football blog is finished, kaput, gorn.
Many thanks to the GTW [otherwise known as The Good Lady Wife], My Spy at The Ground, The Brown Bros, the Stats Guru, and particularly The Philosopher, without whom the blog would not have been possible.
In the words of John Arlott: "to report the doings of Parliament; the development of business or industry, the progress of a war, may be a grave and historic matter. A game, though, is serious only in the extent of the pleasure it may give. Its reporting should be a record of pleasure."
So here endeth the blog.
Thanks for reading and thanks for all the fish.

Crazy Craves.

unbeatable, invincible?

My fellow Stoics,

Due to circumstances beyond my control which extended to some minor surgey for chrissake, this week's bloggy blog blog is limited to some coach's comments.
Scoreboxes are included for the sake of completeness, on account of they never lie.
With any luck, normal services will be resumed next week.

Coach Squeak Taylor of Balmain:
"we should have won, anyway you look at it, we should have won; never mind the referees and the ridiculous penalty count against us, we should have won, how many times do I have to say it, but in reality, we should have won"
And so he went on, and on, and then some, knowing not the time when to shut up.

NEW ZEALAND WARRIORS 32: Tries: Vatuvei (2), Thompson, Johnson, Townsend, Lolohea. Goals: Johnson (4).
WESTS TIGERS 22: Tries: Simona (2), Richards, Tedesco. Goals: Richards (3).
At Mt Smart Stadium, Auckland.
Crowd: 13,781.

Coach Ken Hinkley of Port Adelaide:
"If they [the Swans] can defend like that week in, week out, every week, they are invincible, unbeatable..."
Nuff said.
Speaking of defence, hearty congrats should be accorded to The Great Teddy Richards for playing his 200th game.
He would be as astonished as anyone that he has managed to play in that many games without anyone really noticing.

PORT ADELAIDE: 1.1, 4.2, 6.5, 6.8(44). Goals: Ryder 2, Schulz, Westhoff, Wingard, Monfries.
SYDNEY: 3.1, 7.4, 11.6, 14.8 (92). Goals: Franklin 3, Towers 2, Jetta, Hannebery, Tippett, Jack, Lloyd, Rohan, McVeigh.
At Adelaide Oval.
Crowd: 49,765.

a pair of Easter miracles

True believers,

If you'd want a better go at being resurrected from the dead, only The Good Lord Joisus could top the Swans over Easter.
Even Lazarus couldn't do a better comeback.
After being 41 points adrift at some point during the Champo - in what could only be described a miracle - Sydney, with heavy rain falling, kicked seven goals in the last, as the Bombers just ran out legs.
The opposition, with no pre-season to be speak of on account of the Damocles Sword hanging over them, were completely and utterly rooted at the last break and came to a standstill on a heavy track.
The Swans could see it coming from a mile off and just seized the obvious opportunity to win by 12 points.
SC Horse went along with the ruse and the play acting by hanging his head in his hands at half time, and giving the side an almighty spray at three quarter-time, knowing all along it was never in doubt.
The Stats Guru was on the phone saying it was the worst, the lowest, half-time score by the Swans against anyone in the past seven years.
He reckoned that well qualified for a "slow start to the season".
But not all was what it seemed, and in the end it was a cleverly cobbled together scam.
Mention should be made of Isaac "Mo" Heeney - the "Toast of Cardiff".
Here's a kid who was picked up for nothing in the draft after coming through the Paul Roos Memorial Academy as a home grown talent; being earmarked for greatness, stardom since the under-12's.
With tickets all over himsellf, he walks straight into the starting line-up in a team chock full of last year's Grand Finalists, and after taking his time to find his feet in the big league, looked the goods from the off.
The kiddie can play - sort of a new Rhino Keefe.
And the bloke is just 18, turns 19 next month, for chrissake.
Only made sense that his miracle debut goal in the AFL was the match winner and he was duly mobbed by his team mates.
At the other end of the spectrum, sadly, Goodesy is no longer a yard short, but about four or five yards short.
At 39, the former Strayan of the Year will have rings run around him this season by any number of young fella's bristling with talent.
Let's face it, he should have retired after losing the Grand final, and in the grand scheme of things, actually, probably, should have gone out with Micky O at the height of his powers.
You'd hope he doesn't go the same way as Rhino, who was unceremoniously dropped to the seconds - for good - with the explanation being "yr too old, yr too fat, yr too slow".
Surely Adam can't be that short of a bob that he needs to play on for the money?
At the Sunday morning smoko down by the Magic Waters, Super Coach Longmire conceded that they were "lucky to get away with it" and also mentioned to any one who'd listen some nonsense about "mental toughness".
Bullshit.
Football can be a mind game for sure, but in this one it simply came down to who had the superior fitness in such a long, long game.
Essendon physically just couldn't go on, leaving the flood gates open for the Swans.
Simple at that.
SC Horse will no doubt get an Academy Award for wiping his brow, as he marks that one down into the "we'll take our wins" side of the Coach's Ledger.

SYDNEY: 0.1, 2.7, 3.8, 10.12 (72). Goals: Franklin 3, Tippett 2, Bird 2, Laidler, Jack, Heeney.
ESSENDON: 4.3, 5.5, 9.6, 9.6 (60). Goals: Cooney 3, Daniher, Colyer, Watson, Heppell, Melksham, Goddard.
At Olympic Stadium, Homebush.
Crowd: 23,274.


Just after half past three on Easter Monday afternoon the bush telegraph in the corner of the lounge room chattered into life.
It was my spy at the gound
Ripped the tickertape off the machine and found the message that read "Parramatta 6 Balmain 4 at the break. Stop. A dour affair if ever there was one. Stop. It would be good if something actually happenend, Stop."
It's alway been a ploy by coaches early in the season when players are still trying to find their feet and build up some match fitness to play the most defensive of games, just try to grind the opposition into the dirt, and then run over them like Sherman tanks in the back half of the game to steal the premiership points.
Bugger the enjoyment of the spectators.
Radio commentators suggested that Easter Monday would have to be the worst day of any of the 365 to play rugby league, given that you couldn't help yourself but eat too much of the Bro Roasts, boxes full of chocolates, and drink too much piss with family the day before, so the dietary/alcohol regime had gone clean out the window.
It wasn't until 70 minutes into the match that the Tigers at last decided to do something and nail the Eels to the cross, with the Pat Richards Miracle Try.
No one at the ground could actually work out what happened, and even on the television replay, it remains a mystery.
It appears Richards miraculously saved the ball from going into touch as he danced down the line with masterful skill and judgement [while all the time having a touch judge up his arse ready to raise the flag at any moment], and as he somehow managed to stay in the field of play while being thrown onto his back, just managed to get the ball on the toe into the waiting arms of the Tedesco Kiddie, who planted it in the in-goal with half an inch of grass left in the score zone.
The Eels were flabbergasted, and knew then and there they were gorn.
On interview after the game, even Richards himself admitted that he had no idea how it occured.
No concept.
If you were a Parramatta supporter, you could find it spooky and have very bad dreams about it.
It's a funny game -- Coach Squeak will tell you -- but the miracle, however it occured, was the finest of examples of the fact that there is no finer sight in world sport than running rugby league.

PARRAMATTA EELS 6. Tries: Peats. Goals: Sandow (1).
WESTS TIGERS 22. Tries: Brooks, Naiqama, Richards, Tedesco. Goals: Richards (3).
At Olympic Stadium, Homebush.
Crowd: 35,510.

PS: A note on the crowds.
It's quite rare that a Balmain game out-attends a Swans game on the same weekend, let alone at the same venue - that's probably never happened at Cathy Freeman Stadium.
But when it does happen, the margin is usually quite small.
Sure, Parramatta and Balmain both have huge supporter bases to call on and played on a bright sunny day, but the Swans fell short by more than ten thousand this time.
OK...the weather was shite, no-one went to the Easter show next door in the rain, everyone was out of town for the long weekend; the Swans Marketing Dept can, could, and will come up with any number of excuses.
But you also get to thinking how Sydney crowds are very fickle and demanding.
They hate losers, and can't get enough of winners.
The diehards apart, a lot of Swans fans won't start going to the game until the team looks like it's starting to atone for the horrendous debacle of last year's Grand Final.
That memory won't go away in our lifetimes.
And let's face it, there are 24 weeks, and then some, of atonement to be done.
Everybody knows.

galling & irksome

Disgruntledee's,

It was only a matter of time until Balmain were robbed blind by the Bamfords.
Robbed blind.
Didn't take long, did it?
Only Round 4.
And it was all the more galling that it came on the weekend after the Boss Cocky of The Umpires had called on the hopeless jokes in his charge to stop blowing their whistles and just let the flow of the game go.
Advantage, field position, distance from goal are all premium in rugby league.
So what did the referee's do?
They blew the bejesus out of pea in the whistle for the slightest technical infraction of the rules or some petty imagined regulation that no one had ever read in the rule book...nit-picking of the highest order is the last thing you need in football umpires.
It seemed like every few minutes the Bamfords blew up the game and stopped the play dead in it's tracks, just when things were looking good for one or another of the two teams involved.
What the referee's don't understand is that rugby league is not a girlie game; by and large these are grown men who should be well left sort it out between themselves.
They don't need any help from the authorities.
Penalties should be reserved only for clear professional fouls - the home crowd will tell you when it's not on - while fighting, biting, headbutting, tripping, spitting, scrotum re-arrangement, chicken-winging, spear tackles, blatant clothesliner tackles, stomping etc should be send off offences - as they were back in the day.
Otherwise, the referees should just stay right out of it.
In the second half found myself launching off the lounge and screaming at the television "can you just put that farkin' whistle away!"
Most tellingly, it came into play against the Tigers late in the second half when fatigue and lack of match fitness and a big set of penalties for the most trivial of infringements let the Bulldogs in for two irksome tries to level up the scores, after Balmain had the better of the game all day.
Grrrr.
A 24-24 draw at full-time.
You would have easily come to the conclusion by now...that in my opinion... uneducated, blind, ignorant, useless Bamfords are the biggest blight on the game in the modern era.
Could get really riled up, but there's little point.
The extra time field goal was nothing to write home about...it wobbled and dobbled off the boot to just clear the cross-bar by an inch or two, and the second most hated team in the league beat Balmain, again.
The scoreboard never lies.
Still, on the sunny side, it's pleasing to see the Mighty Tiges can match it with the teams currently running 3rd and 4th on the ladder and come out of both games far from disgraced.
And Coach Squeak knows it, marking down those games in the "we'll learn from our losses" side of the Coach's Ledger.
By no means any call for panic in the early part of the season.

WESTS TIGERS 24. Tries: Tedsesco (2), Lovett, Brookes. Goals: Moses (4).
CANTERBURY-BANKSTOWN BULLDOGS 25. Tries: Rona (2), Lichaa, Morris. Goals: Hodkinson (4). Field Goals: Mbye (1).
At Olympic Stadium, Homebush.
Crowd: 20, 212.

The Barbers of Balmain

Brave Beserkers,

As you'd no doubt be aware, the merits of opposition teams usually don't rate much of a mention in these highly opinionated weekly diatribes...but there are exceptions.
You've got to hand it to South Sydney.
If you had all the tea in China, you couldn't buy a better team.
They have some huge mobile units in the forwards who put up a better defence than the Atlantic Wall: along with backs who have flair, speed, and prodigous talent to burn in attack.
Their set plays are some of the best in the league; when they pull one off it's more often than not undefendable.
Plus, the Rabbitohs players by and large have that rare ability to think strategically on their feet.
Somehow, no one knows how, their talent scouts are known for picking excellent players with big football brains.
Little wonder punters are clamouring at the doors of betting shops trying to get on Souths going back to back premierships.
Faced with that, the Tiges would be more than happy that they matched the Rabbitohs sheer physicality - and had some moves of their own, that never quite paid off in points.
Balmain could have come close to winning it, had it not been for the unforced error rate which Coach Squeak would have reminded his charges in no uncertain terms bordered on the unforgivable.
All in all, a top-notch game of football - all the skills on show; even a couple of customary stinks between these two sides, complete with some class-act hair-pulling.
Don't let anyone tell you there's no money to be made in hairdressing in Balmain.
They'd be lying.
The Barbers of Balmain have always been known for doing much sought after fancy hair-do's, and they charge like wounded bulls for the priviledge.
In the current climate, they must be making a small fortune off the football team alone.
It was the first time this season that the Tiges appeared on free-to-air television, and you couldn't help but be struck by the wonderful array of bouffants.
Aaron "The Smiling Assassin" Woods hasn't had a hair cut in years, just the odd trim to tidy up the split ends
He looks more and more like the Abominable Snowman, with his wild mop taped to his head with Elastoplast.
You'd run for your life if you ever came across something that in a dark alley at night.
Kevin Naigama sported a beehive, yep, you read right, a beehive, arranged with a match-day bird's nest, perched on top.
At one point during the second half, as he was trying to field a long-kicked, high-ball coming in over the top, Big Kev actually managed to catch the ball with his hair.
Never seen that!
The Boy Named Sue has a coffuire that makes him look for all the world like a Top-Knot Pigeon.
Dreadlocks are also a popular at the moment.
Two Poo has the best set; no doubt to look the part when he finds himself bonging on with his mates after hours.
Most of the old blokes on the team have perfectly sensible hair cuts, and just for the sake of stark contrast, Good Ol' Keefy Gallaway is entirely bald.
The Stats Guru did point out that the current Balmain first grade side looks very good on paper, tip-top in theory, and it's a classic mix of yoof and experience.
In the run-on side on Sunday, Balmain fielded seven players under the age of 23, while the rest of the team are hard-nut journeymen or veteran ol' timers in their 30's.
That's good...the children on the side need to be shown and told...the trap for young players is it looks simple, but to play it at the elite level sure aint easy.
Still, if they escape not having yet another season cruelled by injury and keep close to their best team on the paddock, they could go places.
You never know.

SOUTH SYDNEY RABBITOHS 20. Tries: Walker (2), Johnston, Inglis. Goals: Reynolds (2).
WESTS TIGERS 6. Tries: Farah. Goals: Richards (1).
At Olympic Stadium, Homebush.
Crowd: 23,211.

branched out into selling toothbrushes

Marketeeeers,

Australian cricket captains have flogged many things over the years.
Bradman favoured the Elasta-Strap panties while batting, but implied in the advertising that they were also good for kinky situations etc.
The Don also endorsed Mick Simmons Sport Stores and General Motors for a small fortune, and it wouldn't have taken much to put his name to a jig-saw puzzle, among the many many other odds and sods he had going for a filthy pound or two.
Nothing was beyond him.
Greg Chappell patented a peculiar style of floppy white hat that sold in their millions.
More recently, Tubby Taylor is the most honourable fellow and among the nicest blokes you'd ever want to meet, but whatever you do, don't mention "Australia's favourite air" in his presence.
In the lower grades...Keith Miller was a fantastic front man for Rothman's, Doug Walters spruiked Toohey's as if it was the finest brew in all the land...the list goes on.
Currently, Shane "Figjam" Watson - the richest Australian cricketer - sells expensive menswear and quality new cars
MJ Clarke flogs luxury watches and BP petrol, of course, and now he's branched out into selling toothbrushes.
Toothbrushes?!
Scrubbing the things with Oral B toothbrushes is something that has characterised my bedtime routine all my adult life, Clarkey, and guess what?...there's not many of them left.
Just a few pegs; don't think the product works very well, mate.
This is pretty funny, if only for the dead-set give-away hat he's wearing.

http://wwos.ninemsn.com.au/article.aspx?id=8968826

a boy named sue

Wonderers,

Why they bother with playing first grade football at Campbelltown is beyond me.
With the Wests Tigers board irretrievably split with long standing bitter infighting between the factions [which the NRL said they would fix up in the off season, but of course, haven't], why go there?
Campbelltown?
Wouldn't go that far on me holidays.
The Balmain faction complain long and loud about what the Western Suburbs faction bring to the table in terms of heritage and tradition, while the Magpies complain they are being teated like offal by Balmian, and on and on and on it goes.
And that's before anyone starts to talk about money!
Surely the joint venture is on it's last legs?
Balmain has the upper hand in the argument, but have no leagues club [itself the subect of a bitter dispute over Backdoor Benny's controversial redevelopment proposal], while Wests have plenty of Leagues Clubs that aren't prepared to give any pokie profits to the football team, and yet they still complain.
That's why the opening home game of the season was relegated to the unloved Monday night time slot at the Gowdorsaken Cambelltown Sports Ground; a long drive from anywhere, difficult to get to by public transport, no parling to speak of, no facilities, cold pies and warm beer, and no atmosphere in a dump that last had anything done to it in the 70's & 80's.
Poor crowds means it must run at a loss to put games on there, even given the inflated crowd figures published by the league, and to top it off, there were many thousands who were stranded oustide the gates and missed the kick off.
as the antique turnstiles gave up the ghost and refused to functiion.
A lack of staff left the disgruntled fans furious; only the dead set hard core Wests diehards will ever go there again.
Many punters, by all accounts, weren't admitted to the groud until 20 minutes had elapsed, by which time pretty much all the action in the game had occured.
You'd hope they would pursue a very good case for getting their money back.
Oh dear.
As far as it goes personallty, it's never been hard to work out that you are reading a Balmain loyalist here...never did like "the merger"...nothing's likely to change after 28 years...
In the meantime, a game went on, apparently.
You have to feel sorry for all the St George fans who find themselves supporting a team that looks like a hapless rabble.
The Mighty Tiges just put in some really solid hits and then took the ball up in the forwards in the "traditional softening up period", while the sprinters put on the razzle dazzle out the back.
What's not to like about that?
Of course trhe match was full of irony.
Who would have thoughtr that the regular Dragons captain was rubbed out due to injury, and Benji Marshall was appointed as the stand in skippy?
Against his old Alma Mater.
Here's a bloke, who, after playing 300+ games for Balmain and said "I will never ever play for anyone else", captaining another side against them.
The filthy turncoat had a shocker of a game by all accounts; dropped ball, useless passes, weak defence etc.
Good.
The Tedesco Kiddie must be wondering how he pulled the right rein when he had a lucrative three-year contract with Canberra a couple of years ago, signed, sealed & delivered, and then tore it ip a few days later in the cooling off period on the advice of who?
Benji Marshall.
Who along with the Best Leb in The Game [Balmain stalwart, skipper etc] advised young James that it wasn't all about the money.
"Look lad, you can really make a name for yrself here at the Tigers, and from there you could be a superstar"
By all reports, he had a corker of game.
But for mine Kevin Naiqama was a clear man-of-the-match; a big burly winger...110kg coming at you at pace...how do you stop "The Refridgerator"?.
A spot-on off-season buy from Penrith on a one-year contract, so he didn't cost much at all; happy to play for the rent, a couple of schooners and a cut lunch.
My spy at the ground also reckoned Sauaso Sue had a fine game in the second row.
A lot of work has been put into the kid over the last few years, and at 22, he has this year to reach new heights, otherwise he's out of the game.
It was all done and dusted at half time and Coach Squeak put out the order to just work on the defence in the second half - only two points were scored - and he'd reckon that's a good win by any measure.

WESTS TIGERS 22. Tries: Richards (2), Naiqama, Tedesco. Goals: Richards (3)
ST GEORGE ILLAWARRA 4. Tries: Nielsen.
At Campbelltown Sports Ground.
Crowd: 11,837.

a 60th of a minute

Loyalists,

It's that time of year when you'll find me clambering about in the rafters in Dad's Shed trying to connect the antenna to the short wave radio set in order to pick up football calls from distant parts, given the Mighty Tiges and the Hapless Bluds play all over the shop in far flung places nowadays.
Managed to lock onto a curious tin-pot commercial radio call from the Gold Coast on the AM band, featuring the "Lowes Menswear Scoreboard", who appeared to be their major sponsor, with the local garage and chemist shop also on board...payola from here to breakfast...that sort of thing.
They did have some pretty good turns of phrase; when a Balmain forward came to within inches of scoring a try, the commentary team of two threw to the sideline eye for comment.
"he's come down 16 blades of buffalo short of the chalk".
The Balmain Tigers/Wests Magpies team looks pretty good on paper even though they spent no money at all on recruiting.
They preferred to let the very expensive failed experiments in Blair and Anasta go, bank the cash, upgrade a few existing contracts, and spend a bit on junior development with a view to the long term, given they have a good clutch of promising Islander lads going around in the lower grades, some of whom you would expect to break into first grade at some stage during the season.
In a year or two, almost the entire team list will have unpronounceable names; a commentators nightmare.
The Tiges went into the opening match of the season without playing too many trial games, and pretty much put their best XIII on the paddock.
Of course they were handed the super-duper advantage of playing a Gold Coast side from which four of their best players had been suspended by their own club on account of being hauled before the courts charged with doing lines of coke on the cisterns of Surfers Paradise night clubs and generally having a jolly good time during the off season.
Stung by the QLD Crime Commission, or whoever they are, and turned over by the cops, the offending Titans players swallowed the bait - "it's only illegal if you get caught" hook, line, and sinker.
Sweet as.
The rugby league pre-season would be nothing without a ridgey-didge scandal.
The Tigers under new coach Jason "Squeak" Taylor elected to play almost the entirety of the pipeopener in the forwards, while the backs trotted around like show ponies thinking about and working out how to get their combinations together and the set plays going in a real game scenario.
Titans followed suit, so it was a dour game of put 'em up, knock 'em down.
By all accounts, most of the Balmain forwards are followers of fashion and now sport full beards, which only begs the question about the sensation you have when you have one those shoved up yr arse by yr own team-mate in the scrum.
How bizzare, how bizzare.
The relatively clean cut in comparison Pat Richards is a dead-set freak.
On the TV newsreels he looks old, and he is, at 33 years of age, being one of only two survivors of the '05 Premiership winning campaign.
Most players of his age would be well & truly resting on their laurels and counting the cash
So, he scores two tries in a match that failed to reach any great heights until the denoument.
Then, just as it looked like the game was headed for extra-time at 18-all, Richards picks up a short pass, gets himself on an even keel, looks at the goal posts and drop kicks the most improbable, unlikely, field goal from a million miles out for all intents and purposes.
Didn't have a spy at the ground, but some spectators recall seeing the ball catch the hefty breeze as it sailed high, wide and handsome and then curled back in at the last moment to just clear the black dot, the linesmen raising their flags, to procure the miraculous 19-18 win with 1 second, that's right, a 60th of a minute left on the clock.
Nurse! Brandy!
Still, Balmain would be happy just to go home to Leichhardt as Coach Squeak makes his mark in the column of the Ol' Coach's Ledger that's headed "we'll take our wins", while the Titans would be reassured by the fact that you can't lose the Premiership in the first week.
Yet, everyone knows, the road is long and the way is hard over the next 26 weeks.
Wandered into the Front Bar at The Local on Monday morning dressed in a Wests Tigers polo top [just to show solidarity] and found The Philosopher in his usual corner, enjoying this week's favoured tipple, a plain old fashioned Screwdriver.
On seeing me, he unusually rose to his feet and poked me right on the club logo on my chest with the forefinger of his bony hand and said "Goodluck Jonathon".
With no apologies to the President of Nigeria...

GOLD COAST TITANS 18. Tries: Roberts (2), James. Goals: Sezer (3).
WESTS TIGERS 19. Tries: Richards (2), Tedesco. Goals: Richards (3). Field Goals: Richards (1).
At Gold Coast Stadium, Robina.
Crowd: 14,319.

See you soon Chrispy

Vale Christopher Paul Nalletamby.
7th May 1968-12th February 2015.

Friend.
Eccentric.
Raconteur
Cricketer.

One of a kind.

We'll miss you Captain.

treated like offal

My Fellow Bewilderee's,

It's very distressing when you hear a little birdie singing that MJ Clarke and The Board have fallen out.
You might as well make a serrano ham out of it.
It just begs the question, doesn't it?
Why?
It's difficult to believe, as some would have it, that Pup has gone out of his way to piss off everyone that matters in the last month or so.
Difficult.
Why is the Australian Captain being hounded out of the game?
Please, please, does anyone have a credible explanation?
Here's a bloke, who after a slow and sloppy start to his career on and off the field all those years ago, went on to Captain his country most admirably in how many goddam test matches, scored a stack of tons that will go down in fookin' history and will be remembered long after he's gone, averages 50+ and made a million runs to boot.
The Stats Guru has twisted his hair into dreadlocks while pondering the conundrum and then pulled them all out in the ensuing imbroglio.
Sure, Smiffy is the next Captain, he knows it, everbody knows...
SPD Smith is the skipper with "the form guide in his back pocket" while Pup does tend to ride his high horse, to which he is entitled, surely?
What's the diff?
Just ask that consumate arsehole, Bradman, he'll tell you.
Is Michael's private life still being held against him?
Has anyone got any pictures of him lately?
By all accounts he's a happily married man who should get out more.
Or, and here's the rub, are they telling him "yr old, yr crippled, yr tired, and you really should retire gracefully at age 33. Crikey. You made a hundred in yr last test match. Isn't that a good enough farewell for you?"
It's got me beat.
Apart from being injury prone, what has MJ Clarke done wrong in the last little while?
Didn't Clarkey display an uncommon diginity around the Phillip Hughes saga, behaving in an absolutely impeccable manner throughout?
And, it seems, he gets no credit for it, even as they try to push him out the back door with not so much as a sausage.
If you were being treated like offal, you'd be upset, as well.
All for a pissy one-day tournament, for gawd's sake.
The Board made the fatal mistake of putting a date - Feb 21 - in the diary.
Certainly hope they've got the full face masks and eye protectors in the office.
They'll need them for when the merde hits the windmill that day; nothing surer.
Light the blue touch paper and stand well clear.

the complete kit of hand tools

Artisans,

At the Sydney Test match this year, they had a few Indian Chappies out of the back of The Members near the nets, making cricket bats.
The full workshop inside a small tent.
All the motors and lathes and grinders, and the complete kit of hand tools, planes, fine shavers, little chisels, frightening swords, Ghurka knives, that sort of thing.
Channel Nine filmed MJ Clarke down there at what looked like a bit of a distance with poor sound; don't know if it was a hastily cobbled together ruse, or if it was something in passing and he really didn't know the camera was there.
Probably the former.
In any case, Pup, dressed in an immaculately cut blue suit and tie that looked Italian, so fitted him like a glove, was chatting to one of the bat makers and doing this machine gun rapid stream of conciousness thing while gesticulating:
"Now look, see here? This is what I want. [points out with thumb and forefinger that the bat can't be anymore than four-and-a-quarter inches wide]. That's all good up and down there, but I like the shoulders a bit lower than that, and they have to be shaved off there, curved off a longer than usual bat handle, you know what I mean? and here, I'm a right hander, so I need the right hand edge here to be shaved in a little in comparison to the left edge, and here, see on the spine of the bat [turns the bat over and turns it upside down], what I need is all the weight of the bat, right here, just get it all up in here".
From time to time the Indian Chappie would interject with "no Sir! yes Sir! three bags full Sir!"
Clarkey, as always, was looking for the "sweet spot".
Later in the match, after Warner had lent one of his favourite bats to Harris to go the tonk, all the old blokes in the telly commentary said "why on earth would you lend your favourite bat to someone else?".
Obviously Pup knew different "Davey couldn't care. He always has two or three on the go, because he doesn't want to get too comfortable with one, or have a favourite bat, in case it breaks"
Smiffy must be thinking the fairytale honeymoon can't be true.
He would've never imagined in his wildest dreams that he would score four first innings tons on the trot batting at four or five, let alone three of them as a new skipper, to stand alone as the first and only to do so.
Never mind the six-lane highways they were scored on, lovingly prepared, as they were, by friendly curators.
Not his fault - thanks for coming!
Some might quibble with the inexperienced tactics and field placings on the last day in Sydney, but hey, the bloke's young and new to the leadership caper.
2-0 will do.
He can only go on what he's been shown and told.
All the while the fielding coach - surely they'd have one - would've be driven mad by the number of dropped catches.
He's probably in the lunatic asylum drugged out of his mind dreaming that if only they'd just held them all, they would have gone 4-0 up, easy.
You know what they say about catches and winning matches.
As always, what could of have been, and all bets off.
The Stats Guru has had the abacus whirring for a while now, and even he can't keep up with the records, so much so he slumped exhausted in his beanbag and sighed "Oh, Joisus! A lot of blokes went large"
Wandered into the Front Bar at The Local on Saturday afternoon and found the Brown Bros carrying on in a grand fashion; some of them were even barracking for the Strayans.
Most unusual.
Asked them why?
They pointed out their mob of Kiwis had just beaten Ceylon 2-0 while no one was noticing, and all the bats went large..."see you next year, eh? bru!"
Couldn't refuse a middie out of their jugs of beer; and they know their cricket.
Everyone's a winner, baby...

four captains on the Gravy train

Gourmands,

Did note that Pup was used sparingly on the Channel Nine Commentary Team, in his television debut.
You'd imagine that it'd be a bit difficult, as a current player allegedly in rehab, to commentate on other current players, so he was used as some kind of analyst - there's no doubt MJ Clarke has a large cricket brain, and he has learned to speak media speak very well.
The bloke has probably got a future in it.
Found myself spending whole days, weeks, months, nay years, as a cub sports journalist lounging around sports grounds in my early professional career, and it wasn't very hard.
Far from it.
Pup will soon work out that it's an easy living.
Discovered from the get go, much to my astonishment, that a free lunch at someone else's expense was pretty much available in some part of the ground, no matter what ground, or what game was being played.
And it was tip top.
It had a name.
The Gravy Train.
Toot! Toot!
With the right sort of media pass you can get yourself into all sorts of places that you really shouldn't have been in, but hey, it was all off the record.
So not that too surprised or dismayed on hearing SK Warne on the telly recounting the fact that he was responsible for the creation of the spaghetti bolognaise pizza at his local pizza a bar just around the corner from his place.
You heard right, a pot of spag bol dumped on a "dirty rotten" pizza dough, doused in cheese and tomato sauce, and then baked, baked good.
Michael Clarke, who just happened to be in the same pizza bar with Shane this week, was sceptical at first, according to Warney "Pup said, 'oh come on Warney, you're giving me a gee up here'".
But no, Pup smashed a few slices of SB Pizza with gusto, and pronounced it good.
Mr Warne said they went down a treat with "a few frothies".
As far as rehab goes, Pup, that's the end of the section right there - yr mate has turned you over and dobbed you in.
In the meantime, back at the ball park baby, Smiffy is going from strength to strength, scoring a crucial century and a half and then some that gave him the whip hand throughout the course of the five days.
Some pundits say his handling of the last day didn't reflect very well on his captaincy, which is plainly bullshit, for mine.
With the mighty time-honoured Border-Gavaskar Trophy on the line, SPD Smith was perfectly within his rights to play for the draw, and win back the godawful thing, there and then.
It was only fitting that MS Dhoni fell on his sword and was then hoisted on his own petard.
Good on him for just admitting that he'd simply lost it.
No point in going on.
The BCCI gave him an offcial Au Reviour via press release, and thanked him for "bringing laurels to India".
They were probably refering to World Cups and stuff, not the series he'd just lost
The Stats Guru says there's not too many other blokes who've scored nine tons in ODI's and six centuries in Tests, going large and making all those hundreds at home, all of them, nowhere else.
The potty-mouthed Kohli Kiddie has some big millionaire shoes to fill.
MS likes motorcyles, and he owns a lot of them, so enjoy, and Goodluck Jonathon to you in retirement.
Getting a bit off topic here, so back to the free lunch.
Burgers, schnitty's, fried potatoes, buns, creamy salads, you could almost always find a roast [with baked ham a particular favourite], and you might get lucky with a beef stroganoff.
On the best buffet's you could get shellfish; in the run up to Sydney 2000 the prawns were the size of yr elbow and smashing a dozen oysters while no one was looking became an art form.
But that's another story.
Also seem to remember that if you knew where to look there would be a generally pretty good vindaloo of some description on offer, almost always with fried rice, strangely enough..
The next test match at Sydney will be a different bottle of mussels altogether compared to Melbourne.
Rather than appearing on the telly, MJ Clarke should just content himself with a long lunch in the SCG Members Dining Room, every day for nigh on a week.
Throw in a couple of breakfasts as well, and who would blame him?
He should do some stretching and limbering up before he tackles the entree and a cheeky glass of Chablis...