Literature Critics,
Nothing quite like a tell-all autobiograpy for a noice bit of juicy summer reading if what the boffins down in PR are saying is anything to go by.
The Big W catalouge, along with half an old-growth forest, lobbed on my front doorstep on Monday morning last week, as usual.
Noted that Pup's new book...
Michael Clarke, My Story, [Pan Macmillan, Sydney, 2016], 480pp.
...just a day after making sensational front-page headlines, had already been rudely cast out upon the remainder table at the Big Whoop at $28.
Shame on them.
RRP is $44.95.
But therein lies a business opportunity.
After hours of endless practice over the years; got his signature down pat.
Thinking about going there, cleaning out their stock, and flipping forged autographed first-edition copies on eBay at a healthy premium?
Certain money-spinner.
According to the screaming banners on the fishwraps, Shane Watson is a "tumour", ie worse than a festering sore; might have even been a cancer in a cluster-fuck of cancers.
Anyway - it's official - FIGJAM.
SR Watson - as everyone knows - had the negatives of photographs of all the selectors in compromising positions, and finished with jackshit averages.
The Stats Guru reckons that Shane - the selectors' great white hope of all-rounders [Australia really hasn't had a genuine one since Keith Miller] - finished with the world's record for getting out in the 40's and 90's in Test cricket.
At least Michael had the decency and sense to leave it at "tumour"...could have said a lot worse.
And of course after a giddy-up from Pup's people, Watto vehemently denied that he had, or has, any kind of tumourism about him.
If fact, Mr Watson reckons he's the nicest bloke you could ever meet.
That's until you're asked to believe Mitchell "Joke Johnno" Johnson's autobiography - called Resilient and in all good bookstores this week - in which he apparently claims Watto once flushed his head down a toilet.
By God, Fawlty, what fun these cricketer's have!
Thought that it was very honourable and humble of Pup to acknowledge, at last, that MJ Clarke called SM Katich called a "weak-cunt" before the now infamous dressing room attempted strangulation incident, saying only that it was 'inappropriate language'.
Simon says he was unable to accept the apology that wasn't forthcoming, and reckons his relationship with Pup has been "non-existant" ever since, despite Clarkey saying their differences have been 'patched up' and they are now best of mates.
Just goes to show that everyone who was in the rooms at the time the Super Kat tried to choke Pup to death will have an entirely different recollection of what happened - even though they all saw and heard exactly the same thing.
It's simply not possible that any one story will be the same.
According to My Spy at The Ground, Clarkey also admitted on interview in a 60 Minutes puff-piece - which passed me by - that he had been called "a dick" and a "dickead" on more than one occasion.
This is straight talk from arguably the greatest batsman of his generation; history, it seems, has already decided on his captaincy.
By all accounts, Pup could have been a top notch leader of men, but he says he just didn't much like being a middle manager.
Who would? When you're meant to be Number One.
Thanks Boof.
And in all the press reports and the odd book review, have not heard one single mention of the "L" word or of a woman being involved - Lara Bingle likely gets a scant mention, given that she was probably scantily-clad when they first met, but surely the outrageously expensive engagement ring down the S-bend and the team of plumbers' three-day search for it in vain would rate a mention because - an old journo speaking here - now that's a story.
So there's yr book review of reviews of a book that this critic hasn't read, and you'd have to suspect that not many will get through the ripping yarn either.
At almost 500 pages, you'd imagine it as more a coffee table number, something to flip through in a desultory fashion over mixed drinks and petit four.
There'd be a quotable quote on every page.
When it turns up in bloke's Xmas stockings, depending on their disposition, it'll either go straight in the wheelie-bin or up on the shelf in the trophy room with all the other sports books they got on Christmases past, but never got around to reading.
Shame on them.
But boy, Clarkey has been a busy boy, announcing a more or less full-time summer job on a pretty penny with the wonderful Wide World of Sports.
Turning out for Western Suburbs in this season's Sydney grade comp appears to have now almost certainly fallen by the wayside after two games.
The concept of a renewed career in T20 is long gone - dead, buried, and cremated.
Even though he has a very large cricket brain and is a pretty good analyst of the game, employing Michael - who, let's face it, failed to be wildly popular among the general public for reasons unknown and has a kind of whiney little voice which is not his fault - is ratings death for mine, not that that's my decision.
It pains me, nonetheless.
The Twitterati were all a twitter.
It was as if the world as we know it had ended.
'A shocked and horrified Max Cartwright declared “this is a dark day in sport” and “clarke?! u serious channel 9? obviously trying to turn viewers off. might have to just watch on mute and listen to ABC this summer” raged Michael Cavanagh' [probably a troll who forgot about the seven second delay - still, can't you get an app for that?]
If you actually go to the ground for any first-class game, Test or otherwise, none of any of the above actually matters; you get no official commentary at all - just the game, a few barrackers and the ground announcer on the Tannoy.
How easily people forget the thwack of willow on leather and the gentle ripple of applause.
And there's always time for afternoon tea and a snooze.
Bring it on.
