MJ Clarke reaches the pinnacle

Heroes & Flannelled Fools,

Amid all the brou-ha-ha surrounding the Olympics and the fevered frenzy in the build-up to the football finals, it was easy to overlook the fact that, in a complete surprise to everyone, MJ Clarke has reached the very pinnacle - Honorary Life Membership of the Marylebone Cricket Club.
That is way, way better than a knighthood; it's more akin to being admitted to the life peerage - you have to wait until someone dies before you get in.
Pup is certainly in rarified air up there at the summit, with MCC Honorary Life Membership currently numbering just 36 persons.
30 former cricketers [including one Lady cricketer], one former Umpire, one former British Prime Minister and four members of the Royal Family - Phil The Greek being principal among them, the Queen couldn't give-a-fuck.
However, always found it odd that Membership of the MCC is so prestige and so coveted and sought after [current waiting list for Full Ordinary Membership is 27 years], when Lords has always been known as a sunny place for shady people, and a drinking club with a cricket problem.
The MCC Membership is chock full of shysters, conmen, hucksters, outcasts, shonks, cads and bounders.
Just look at Thomas Lord, who made his fortune from gambling on cricket, and schemed and cheated his way to thieving control of the game off the Hambledon CC, back in the day.
[In stark contrast, Kennington Oval - the Prince of Wales' Own Ground - he happens to own the land which he leases to Surrey CCC - attracts a much more knowledgable crowd of cricket punters and has a decent respectable Membership].
But, suppose everyone wants in, because the MCC has clout.
They have clout because they make The Laws.
A power closely and jealously guarded by the club even in these days of the ICC.
No one does nothing in the game without the say-so of the MCC.
As the great man enters the Pavilion the doorman will say "Good afternoon, Mr Clarke", but he'll be greeted in the Long Room with "G'day Pup! Good to see yas cobber, my dear old chap. What's been shakin', mon? A G&T perhaps, Clarkey?"
Also, from a crippled person's personal point of view, very pleasing to see that Clarkey has also taken on chronic pain as a cause, recently being appointed an Honorary Ambassador for Pain Australia.
He now admits that he's been suffering from Shagger's Back since he was 17 [started early] and has come to realise that over the past six months or so he's needed help in retirement, as there is simply no point in grinning and bearing it, because it is eminently treatable.
Don't get me started about the sheer agony of just putting your shoes and socks on of a morning.
After 40 years experience, probably should give him a ring and let him and the chronic pain folks know that about 2 grams of Cannabis Sativa per day pretty much does the trick - bugger the opioids and all that shit.
But since Pup's been down to the clinic, he will likely be right into it.
The bloke has always been on drugs, without even knowing that all you need is the herb superb.
Sir Vivian Richards can't be wrong.
Bong or scoob on, and yes, you too, can live a normal life.
Onya, Pup.

not usually in the bailiwick

Not usually in the bailiwick of this blog-blog-bogitty-blog, but here goes anyway.
Some scribblings from Crazy Craves during the recent Olympic Games in Rio de Janeiro.

once an Olympian, always an Olympian

Papua-New Guinea's only entry in the Judo, Raymond Ovinou?
His Games all over in 43 seconds.
By Ippon.
Gold.
Arrives on Easy Street inside a minute.
Living the dream, and living it large party-style back at the village for the next fortnight.
Goddamit - why didn't we think of that?
Once an Olympian, always an Olympian.

completely normal

Party Cone Pullers,

I'm a decrepit enough old sports journo to recall the story of Lisa Curry walking into the swimming dressing sheds at the Los Angeles Olympics, and her competitors being shocked and frightened by this massive, muscle-ripped, hugely imposing Amazon of a woman as she stripped off - and yet - she won nothing.
Everything old, is new again.
So, the Olympic pool in Rio is awash with every kind of snaky substance known to man.
Powerful pharmaceuticals of the go fast variety?
Surely not?
At least the Chinese media are on the money when they describe Australia as "on the fringes of civilisation":

The naughty one is on the right, although the one of the left looks like he's off his chops, also.
The bloke in the middle is completely normal.

struth, cobber

Metallurgists,

While I have the utmost respect and admiration for The Great Dr Charlesworth, and his storied contribution to Australian hockey over the decades, his stellar 47 first-class cricket matches and three Sheffield Shields, his fine ten-year career as a good pinko Parliamentarian for Perth, and his sideline as a General Practitioner - really, now...
It's plain for all to see that Rugby Sevens is soft.
Gold is soft; pliable, malleable, ductile.
Field Hockey is a cruel, vicious, violent game.
Anything else you want to tell us, Ric?
http://www.abc.net.au/news/2016-08-09/womens-rugby-sevens-win-labelled-soft-by-former-hockey-player/7709610
Struth, cobber.
How about Gold! Gold for Straya! Gold! Norman May style?
Next time with a bit more patriotic fervour.
Don't over think it, me ol' mate.
Shut up, and go get some - any way you can.

no perfect tens for nothing

Fellow Martians,

Men's and women's Gymnastics is like some kind of strange, secret ritual, largely conducted and kept behind closed doors.
An arcane game peopled, as it is, by frighteningly driven folk and weird, kooky aficionados, who all know that nobody remembers who came second.
Maybe that's why they only allow it to be shown on the television once every four years.
And the intricate complexity of it all, the myriad of technicalities, and the chaotic scoring system almost defies the imagination.
That's why they have long-experienced highly-qualified judges and stewards who lay down the law and do their job very well, but over the course of a six-hour day on the judgin' bench, can't help but show their humanity, and play favourites.
Don't get me wrong, it's not as if it's not good to watch.
Most people know and enjoy when they see excellence.
The sheer strength, skill, agility, poise and grace required to do it certainly makes for a brilliant spectacle.
But, I don't need to watch anymore, for I am fortunate to be old enough to have seen in real time, perfection - Nadia Comăneci.
Find myself asking -- why do they carry on, when nothing more can be achieved?
They don't hand out perfect tens for nothing.

badminton will have to be banned

Never mind Dressage, looks like Badminton will have to banned from the Olympics, due to general political incorrectness and the unethical treatment of animals:

"Top level shuttlecocks are made from sixteen feathers embedded in a rounded cork base covered with leather. Goose feathers are the best. Duck feathers are sometimes used but they have a tendency to dry out and break. The feathers - nearly all from China, where the there is a strong taste for goose - must come from the left wing of the bird, and each wing provides only seven or eight feathers of the requisite size. They are easily bent and broken, so players may get through a dozen or more during the course of a match. Shuttlecocks also have to be used quickly; they cannot be vacuum-packed and begin to degrade after a couple of months on the shelf."

from David Goldblatt & Johnny Acton, How to Watch the Olympics, [Profile Books, London, 2011], 400pp.

Haven't done the math, but how many birds are sacrificed in the service of The Games and then burnt-at-the-stake?
BBQ'd to all their meaty, greasy goodness.
Pop 'em in a snack pack and watch the shuttlecocks fly!
Horrifying vegetarians since 1992.

the Green Pool and the Gold Vagina

Jacques Cousteau's,

By far the biggest scandal of the Rio Games, so far, must be The Green Diving Pool, for mine.
Reminded me somewhat of Kerosene Creek on the North Island of New Zealand.
Now, if you want really green water, go there.
Chock full of strange life forms.
It's remote and hard to find, but when you plunge in, it is warm, as the stream is bristling with pools of hot thermal springs at about 34 degrees, and yes, it does stink of kerosene.
But the chemical waters are renowned nation-wide for their healing and health giving properties, especially for the physically challenged aka afflicted.
However, there are warning signs that you are never, under any circumstances, to put your head under water.
Kero Creek is seething with weird amoeba, that get in through your mouth, yr nostrils, yr shell-likes, even yr eyes; which then start attacking the brain, and you end up with something akin to Mad Cow's Disease.
Appropriate, really.
Given the Olympic Games are a vast excercise in complete craziness.
And who knew that it takes 11 million litres of the finest water Rio has to offer, to drain and refill a competition diving pool?

Reminded again that the Australian accent and vernacular can get you into innocent, and no so innocent trouble, while overseas.
You are guarateed to have at least one faux pas a day in lands where English is not the mother tounge.
Got no idea who the second-string track and field commentator behind the great Bruce McAvaney on the Ch.7 coverage is, but who ever he is, he has an excellent Strayan accent.
My hearing is not what it used to be, but I swear the other night that when he was referring in Strine to some event, and said so-and-so "looked likely to win the gold for China", it for all the world came out sounding like "The Gold Vagina".
Odd thing language.
Little wonder that non-native speakers with 600 words of English, have simply no idea what Australians are talking about, let alone what they are on about.

the bloke who was running away from it

Lounge Lizards,

The Marathon?
Run only because it happened, once, back in the day - September 12, 490 BC.
Marathon?
Some run-down good-for-nothing of a town that just happened to be of critical strategic military importance on the day, when a couple of mobs in disagreement had a helluva toe-to-toe ding-dong brawl over it, by all accounts.
And at the start, it was the bloke who was running away from it, and was praying all the time to what ever God was his, that he'd never have to do it again, ever.
Yet, people still do.
Very hard to find anything more old-fashioned at The Games.
But why 26 miles 385 yards?
When, although no-one has ever quite bothered to get the tape measure out, the road distance between modern day Marathon and Athens is about 25 miles, more or less, in the old money.
In a state of exhaustion from too much sport is barely enough, found myself late at night slumped on the lounge being sucked into the vortex that is Women's Marathon.
In Australian Rules you often hear the commentators say "and it's a perfect day for football" - you never hear anyone saying "and it's a perfect day for a Marathon".
Hot, humid, no breeze to speak of and not a cloud in the sky is never perfect for anything, let alone a brisk stroll in the park.
That said, the lady from Kenya, Jemima Jelegat Sumgong, ran a perfect tactical race under the conditions, and knew it; saying gold was hers in her own head once she passed the 40km signpost from where she came from.
"I knew I was on the way to history.”
She knew all day the others would fade away, one-by-one, struggling in agony every inch of the way, with wildly different contortions of extreme pain and dreadful suffering written all over their faces.
In a race where there is no mercy, they all looked like they were in desperate need of urgent drug treatment; please, just a pinch of some of that Colombian Marching Powder, just to keep me going to the finish of it all, please, just please.
After plodding along brilliantly for all of two hours twenty four minutes and four seconds, Ms Sumgong won by a mere nine seconds - but she knew that was enough, she knew she would win - it was never in doubt.
She knew it might as well be daylight between her and silver, the margin back to second never counts, despite the appearance of it being a close run thing.
From the get go - a classic war of attrition - at its finest.
Good to watch

the Strayan Captain and the Marathon sex Session

Voyuers,

What's not to love about Anna Meares, the Strayan Captain and Flag Bearer?
She's old, tired, heavy in the legs and yet she still manages to win bronze! bronze for Straya! bronze!
To add to her already mightily impressive trophy cabinet
Four consecutive Olympic Games appearances is a grand achievement in anyone's language, all the more so in the super-competitive game of cycling.
They might as well have invented the derny just for her.
And she admits she didn't have to do Rio, she just wanted to, because she knew she could.
And despite her being famous from sea-to-shining-sea, she remains the epitome of humbleness, blessed that she was able to do it all, and proud to win for her country, not just for her alone.
Plus, while the shot putters and discus throwers would give her a run for her money, dear Anna must have the biggest bargearse in all the Strayan team.
Those big legs, those tight skirts -- just drive me right outta of my mind.

Speaking of which, ever since Melbourne invented the Athlete's Village back in '56 there's been all sorts of unspeakable hanky-panky going on in there.
Believe it.
The combination of adrenalin, testosterone, estrogen, booze, cocktails of powerful pharmaceuticals, and plenty of time on their hands, is bound to produce wild and crazy scenes beyond the imagination.
Did like the story of the Brazilian women's synchronised diving duo finding themselves in an acrimonious split over one of them, Ingrid Oliveiram, being involved in a "marathon sex session" with a male Brazilian canoeist.
The other one, Giovanna Pedroso - obviously insanely jealous of the other [according to the local gossip columns] - just couldn't handle it as she was told in no uncertain terms to leave their share room so Ingrid could get jiggy with it with Pedro Goncalves.
At least the rooter/rootee offenders kept it orderly and "in-house", and there was no cross-border fertilisation.
Hero's, both of them, in the Rio press.
The biggest scandal for mine, was that all this whoopee and living the dream happened the night before the pair were due to compete.
Outrageous.
Still, that never stopped Bob Beamon jumping out of his skin to the tune of 29ft 2½in back in '68 in Mexico City.
Needless to say with one of the girls on the work bench all night, and the other one as miffed as; they came stone motherless last in the synchronised 10m platform final.
Gold.

where all the money went out the back door without so much as a sausage

Would be freeloaders,

I'm calling it.
As The Games draw to a close, there must surely be a Royal Commission into what went wrong and where all the money went.
Tom Hughes QC, Counsel Assisting and Kitty Chiller as the star witness.
She'll be endlessly cross-examined about the wildly over-optimistic predictions on where Straya finished on the all-important Medal Tally.
"I put it too you, Ms Chiller, that Australia is a small fish in a very big pond, and yet, after over a century of trying to grow into a nice plate-sized one, and the vast amount of treasure spent in the pursuit, Australians still don't get it. Do you agree with that proposition?"
"Yes"
"In that case, do you believe Australia was - to use the vernacular -'punching above its weight' at the recent Games in Rio?"
"No"
That sort of thing.
Oh, did I mention money?
Forget Citius, Altius, Fortius.
As a news reporter covering Sydney 2000, I saw first hand and up close the astonishing graft, greed, corruption, magnificent riches wasted, and the exceptionally lavish fully-funded lifestyles enjoyed, maintained, and closely guarded by the 98 Members of the IOC.
In 2000, they ate their way through Australia's entire annual production of saffron in a fortnight.
The Gravy Train to end all gravy train's.
They think and live like they are royalty, entitled to endless entitlement [you only stop being an IOC Member on the day you die], and behave as if the sun shines out of their collective dirty arseholes, while everyone around them bows & scrapes.
So they are first class role models, always have been, when it comes to frittering away mountains of cash, no cheques please.
The Australian Sports Comission freely admits that we, that is, you and me, have spent no less than $376.7 MILLION on "high-performance" Olympic sports programs since London.
That's a helluva lot of pineapples thrown at it, with barely a brass razoo to show for it.
The Royal Commission will be onto the fact that the "amateur" athletes themselves saw very little of the brown paper bags stuffed with greenbacks.
They'll be imagining a scenario where all the coaches, trainers, physio's, witch-doctors, nurses, orthopaedic surgeons, massuers, cupping experts, sports psychologists & trick cyclists, performance algorithm crunchers, dieticians, acupuncturists, not to mention drug-peddlars, and the myriad of other hangers-on with grand titles, getting together in a meeting room somwhere in Canberra, and the Chairman saying to the meeting "now, we've got all this free money from the Government, so what should we do with it? Do we spend it on sets and costumes? Or pay ourselves handsomely?"
To which comes the deafening reply "PAY OURSELVES HANDSOMELY!!"

My Spy at The Ground in Rio, while fond of the non-Olympic sports of real football and cricket, is also a basketball nut and was scathing in his opinion of the sheer arrogance of the Opals [who were meant to have a saloon passage through to the gold medal match v USA, weren't they?], but, who like almost all of the other team sports' Strayan teams, went out in the quarter-finals or worse [in the "professional" as buggery Opals case, to Serbia. WTF?] and thus get shoved out the back door and sent home without so much as a sausage.
I have barely seen a frame of the yachting on the Ch7 coverage, but it is the sailor boys and girls who can always be relied upon to bring home the bacon late in the second week, to make the scoreboard look barely respectable.
Go figure.
Think Sydney.
I could go on, but I'll let the Bush Telegraph in the corner of the loungeroom do the talkin', for once:

*The too precious - Golfers and Tennis players who are too good to even go to the Games.
*The reckless idiots - Judo players who forget to build an attack on substance.
*The sugar-loaded dreamers - Rowers who turn up on a wild card and want us to believe they’re ready.
*The over-confident - with beliefs built on hope not results - Soccer players who believe miracles happen twice within one minute of each other.
*The spoilt brats – gymnasts and divers who have always been told they’re wonderful and Mummy gives them a 10 every time.
*The get rich quick mob – the whole damn lot of ‘em living it up on the sweat of workers without a care or threat of punishment when they fail.

My Spy is cynical & cranky, but has plenty of respect for the long-suffering taxpayer, with good reason.
It's been such fun and it aint over yet, but I'm through with commentary on these Games - the best ever, as they always are - same, same, only different - sayōnara Rio de Janiero.
I'll be seeing you all in Tokyo in 2020, where you'll find me heading straight out to the skateboard park.
And as always, remember that if you are not enjoying yourself, then it's probably your own fault.
Tally Ho!
Toot! Toot!

not usually in the bailiwick

Not usually in the bailiwick of this blog-blog-bogitty-blog, but here goes anyway.
Some scribblings from Crazy Craves during the recent Olympic Games in Rio de Janeiro.