drawn on a flat pillow

Snoozers,


MJ Clarke - who seems to have taken on the role as Channel Nine's official "pitch inspector" on the morning of each day's play - saw the featherbed as the covers were peeled off the pitch on Boxing Day at the Melbourne Cricket Ground and exclaimed "that looks like a one-day wicket! Oh, that is flat, and look at it, shaved, not a blade of grass...that is going to be a beautiful pitch to bat on."
Pup would have been muttering under this breath "what a farkin' belter! Wish I wasn't retired, or I'd fill my freakin' boots".
And so it came to pass.
One of the commentariat called the strip a "bowl of porridge".
In retrospect the match was drawn at the toss, never mind the fact that Straya fell at least 150 runs short in the first innings, when 600+ was ripe for the taking.
The pitch and the scoring were so lifeless and slow on the opening day, how could it be otherwise?
On the morning of Day 5, Clarkey was moved to remark "it's extremely flat, hardly any foot marks at all. This pitch looks just like it did on Day 1”.
Marvellous Melbourne.
It's been 18 seasons now of "drop-in" pitches at the MCG - the pioneers in that Dept. - and they only did it after Australian Rules footballers got weak and sick and tired of being hammered into a concrete hard mud heap in the winter, and whinged and complained about it, after it had been going on for more than a century.
Don't they know football was invented to give cricketers something to do in the winter?
And what's it been good for?
Absolutely nothing.
And as far as Powers That Be down at the ICC go, 40 tonnes of "drop-ins" are now the gold standard.
You'd have to suspect their evil plan is to play all test matches into the night and let the pink ball do the talkin'.
Even the very idea would have the purists apoplectic with fury
This year's model was doing zip, jack shit, bugger all throughout - dead from the opening delivery; deceased, no more, finished up, kaput, carcassised...dead, buried & cremated.
My Spy at The Ground pushed through a message at the start of Day 4 on the Bush Telegraph "bat, bat, bat, and then bat some more, on this flat pillow".
On interview after stumps were drawn early at the denouement, soon after the Australian captain wiped his brow with yet another century, he remarked, "the pitch was slow, although it was good to bat on it wasn't that easy to score runs over the five days. Yeah, pretty slow".
The Stats Guru did a quick whir of the abacus and confirmed as much with an aggregate run rate of 2.75 per over the duration.
Even the old bush cricket ploy, where an opposition captain would lay a well formed log of a turd on a good length at both ends the night before the match, would not have livened things up much or helped that deck.
And the over rate, as usual, got more appalling as it dragged on.
The pitiable bowlers knew there was nothing in it for them from the opening bounce and lost interest for hours on end.
As Smiffy was meticulously getting together his ton, with most it all run, on the last day, the Good Lady Wife reminded me of the great Peter Shanahan, the long serving breakfast newsreader during my stint at Radio 2GB back in the 80's.
One morning during an Ashes test match in the 70's, Shanahan was presented with some sports copy to read and broadcast to the world:
"England's Tony Grieg failed to extract any bounce from the lifeless bitch...er...pitch".
If only he hadn't corrected himself, he would have got away with it; as it was, he never lived it down.
Just lucky it wasn't me who got strangled for writing the copy.
Wasn't there, yr Honour.
As far as tame draws go it was an inconsequential dead rubber, anyway.
The only time the Poms ever got even the slightest hint of a sniff was having Straya four down and 13 runs in front on the morning of the last day, but the result was never in doubt.
NID.
The curator had made sure of that.
Skipper Smiffy's second innings hundred put him way out there into the stratosphere of course, with some plainly ridiculous average for this season on account of he's all but impossible to get out and is making tons at will, double centuries if you don't mind, when they matter.
A good Captain's knock, have no doubt about it - no ifs or buts - but in the Grand Scheme of Things it didn't really matter that much or 'save' the game, as the whole shootin' match slowed to a crawl and fizzled out, with rain taking a couple of bites out of the damp squib.
Not much of a game worth 'saving', really.
Oh well.
Engerland's opener AN Cook, who no-one's really ever rated and everyone thought was one bad game away from being dropped after a long career, of course made 244 not, prompting cries from the most uncharitable of "even my grandmother could make a hundred on that six lane highway", but more to the point, Cook spent every minute of the test match on the field over the full five days.
Never missed a minute.
He fielded in both the Australian innings and performed the rare feat of "carrying his bat" for ten and a half hours in the Poms only innings - saw the lot, he did.
Nothing passed him by.
No time spent in the sheds, no rub-downs, no doing the crossword or having a game of cards, and no chance to slip out the back for a quiet gin'n'tonic.
Cook witnessed every damn one of the 2,325 balls bowled in the match, and closely watched just 24 wickets fall.
There's no rest for the wicked and the poor Pom would have been absolutely buggered and completely rooted after that.
But he would have been miserable even after going very large with a big double hundred as his team still couldn't win.
Not on that road.
Oh, no siree.
Purpose built for Straya not to lose, it was.
It's still 3-nil, chaps, with Sydney to play.
Although the prospect of a whitewashed clean sweep is now gone, and with the Ashes won what seems a long time ago now during the co-coinciding Silly Season, Smiffy will make doubly doubly sure that the Poms go home in the New Year without winning so much as a sausage.
And that's the way we like it.

the Urn returns and the demise of the W.A.C.A Ground

Wackarites,

The punning was dreadful in the papers "Australia urns the Ashes!"
Won't bore you with the rest.
"Brilliant Aussies Humiliate Pathetic Poms", was all the Daily Terror could come up with as a front page headline.
Weak.
Tame; they were massacred, no-one left behind to tell the story.
News from the Mother Country has it that there was NO reportage of the event whatsoever in the fish-wraps in the Ol' Dart, and there was certainly no cause for jubilation in the Heart of the Empire.
Done cold by the Colonies, they were, the Poms, with two games to spare and now staring down the barrel of the ignominious disgracement of 5-nil.
Few things give me greater pleasure than to see the Pommy bastards cop a gigantic tusk up the runter at cricket.
There was a feeling of unbridled reflected joy & glory as one of the finest sights in world sport was being played out on the third day - "moving day" - in Perth...Poms being slowly, but unmercilessly, ground into the dust...to the tune of 9/662 dec.
Everybody has their opinions on the hinge of battle - the thing on which everything else swings - was it by far and away their best batsman, the mild-mannered Benny Stokes, going berserk in Bristol way back in September in the brain-explosion to end all brain-explosions?
We'll never know.
Was it the tourists getting utterly hammered by ten wickets at the Gabbatoir after winning the toss and putting on 300?
Smiffy was in it from the off with a lazy 141 not.
That could well have been it, there and then - the absolutely priceless 1-nil lead in a five match series.
Was it Mr. Dudley Root Esq calling the flip correctly and then incorrectly inviting Orstralia to bat and make a poultice in Adelaide at zero one down, ignoring the fact that he didn't have a sufficient arsenal, day or night?
And everybody knows what happened at the Pink Stink
Or was it Smiffy [again] departing the planet in Perth?
Sorry Pup, but your mantle as the best batsman of your generation is being seriously challenged by Skipper Smiffy here.
The double ton on a six-lane freeway was a simple joy to watch as it went on all day - proper Test cricket - the crisp cut shots, the glorious cover drives, the pulls, the swipes and sweeps and hoiks, the superlative textbook leg play all easily beating the hopelessly hapless field - even Cow Corner wasn't safe - and as the shadows grew longer it was plain comical to see the Baby-Faced Killer effortlessly twirl his bat around about above his head and just flick a short one way over the top of the only slip off some absolutely buggered Pommy bowler.
Anderson, Broad, Woakes, Overton and Ali all got hit for a hundred and then some.
And they were told about it - endlessly.
A master class.
SPD Smith has now been admitted to the Pantheon, if he hadn't been before.
At one point it was mentioned that someone with far too much time on their hands had calculated that Smiffy does up to 27 different movements of his body between facing every ball.
Crikey!
More fidgety than even MJ Clarke ever was, if that is humanely possible.
Was it Hey Hey Jonny Jonny Bairstow's unusual behaviour in a Perth bar before the tour even really began where all the wheels fell off the dodgy touring wagon?
Smiffy learnt alot while he was on a rickshaw recently in India, where they are past-masters at it; and the Poms were sucked in holus bolus and had their heads completely done in by Straya's very clever "psych-war" that was guaranteed to produce mental disintegration, despite the sledging not getting too out of hand, except for a bit of light-hearted banter...e.g. Smiffy v Jimmy Anderson discussing the state of the scoreboard in Adelbrain [Aleem Dar adjudicating].
What about the Poms just being not up to standard as the hinge point?
Plainly not good enough.
Attack? Poor, too slow. Bats? Took 'em until the third game to get a ton. Field? Below average. Minds? Gorn.
Out-played and out-foxed in every department there is.
Series over.

The epoch-ending of the WACA as a test match venue is something that cannot be let go without comment.
The Western Australian Cricket Association Ground has been there literally forever, and remains the last genuine cricket ground in the country [a high wide and handsome hill with a higgeldy-piggeldy collection of odd little old grandstands] with perhaps the exception of Bellerive Oval [whatever happened to the old TCA Ground?].
While it will apparently remain as a first-class ground for the time being, no money has been spent on it in decades - Joisus, even the pitch covers come apart after long periods of disuse - and in time it will be built over with high-rise flats, mark my words.
Never mind the black and white images of Lillee taking wickets at one end and Thommo making them jump at the other, as the chin music hummed off a "pacey WACA wicket".
Thing of the past.
The powers that be say it's too small at a notional capacity of 24,500, and apart from "high ranking teams", Perth will now not have a test match every summer, as the "lower ranking teams" test matches will be moved to Hobart.
You've been dudded without knowing it, Perth.
They will fill their new 60 thousand seater Superdome to the brim every weekend in winter, directly rivalling that other football stadium known as the Adelaide Oval, but test cricket has been consigned to the dust bin of homogenised all-seated stadia with same same only different drop-in pitches world-wide, on instruction from those on high at the ICC.
Sad, for any weary ol' nostalgic traditionalist; bloody ruined it.
Been to the WACA, once, almost exactly 31 years ago.
That's ancient history now, but the ground's barely changed since.
While the match in question is pretty much lost in the mists of time, it was a picture post-card perfect Perth day if memory serves, warm with little fluffy clouds and that unique light that reflects off the Indian Ocean, the Doctor was in, and found myself watching from one of those charming old white-washed thick wicker chaise-lounge arrangements on the balcony of a bar overlooking the ground attached to the old Western Australian Cricketer's Club sucking free ice cold Emu Bitter out of cans and smoking my head off on sponsor's product.
By invitation only...on my own in a joint full of well dressed strangers on the take, all yabbering their heads off, and it got pretty messy, to be sure.
Essentially a large "private box" before there was even such a thing, well, free piss, anyway, and not too many seats, either.
Somehow recall that it was very bright too - the first time the brand spanking new floodlights had been switched on?
Can't remember, who knows, but even so there was no shortage of shady places to lurk in.
And they were still mucking about putting in the new Lillee-Marsh stand; thinking it was meant to be open [?] but it was certainly the last major building project there
Thank Christ there was no need for anything to spill out over onto the hill, which as usual got rather raucous, but then the mob grog groaned; can't remember that much really, but it was that sort of atmos late in the day with no booze limits on full strength gear when the result is forgone against you and fist fights start to break out for alternative entertainment, and the cops move in to the cries of the crowd howling derision and calling for more.
And old-school one-day game - they'd only been playing in pyjama's for eight years - at an old-school ground, even then.
Told him not to, but the Stats Guru has been going through his filing cabinet of index cards and he reckons it was the 4th of January 1987...Australia v West Indies, Benson & Hedges Challenge Cup.
The deity-like Sir Vivian Richards was in charge of the Windies, and batting first, Gordon Greenwich tonked up an even ton, in what was a competitive 8/255 in those days, with Scoob O'Donell the best of the Aussie bowlers working The Doctor to good effect.
So far, so good.
Then the memories started flooding back - the Green & Gold were utterly destroyed without mercy by a fearsome pace attack of J Garner, CA Walsh, and MA Holding - Roger Harper was the spinner and even Larry Gomes and Gus Logie took catches in the field - and the evening session ended all-of-a-sudden soon after sunset, with Straya all out for 91, about 15 overs short.
Only the young "The Iceman" Waugh and Sundries made double figures, while the Keg on Legs, Marsh Snr, Deano Jones, A.B., and Glenn Bishop failed miserably with the willow and were all out at 5/32.
Didn't help when Boony had his stumps seriously rearranged neck and crop by Joel steaming in off the long run to make it 1/4 for a start off.
On recollection, it was a serious disappointment.
And very sincerely doubt now, wracking my brain, that such a thorough thwacking of a thrashing has been graced with my presence before or since.
Well, that's the way it was on my one and only day at the lovely old dump, as far as it goes.
So, bye bye WACA, it was nice knowing you.

Of more immediate interest on the not too distant horizon is the fact that Sydney hasn't hosted a live Ashes rubber in 23 years now.
Little wonder really, the Poms have never been able to adapt to the conditions let alone master them - never will - the vastness of the Wide Brown Land is way beyond them.
At what point do we lose interest?
Never!
Poms collapse in a screaming heap in Melbun!
Start chanting [to the tune of Robbie Burns' 1788 corker Auld Lang Syne] "5-nil! 5-nil! 5-nil! 5-nil! 5-nil! 5-nil! 5-nil! 5-nil! 5-nil! 5-nil! 5-nil! 5-nil! 5-nil! 5-nil!"
Bugger the dead rubber, odds on you have to be at the SCG on Day 5, Monday the 8th of January, 2018, [if not earlier] for the Poms' miserable denouement and to kick their arses all the way back home to their Mumsies for a good cry.
Cricket is a hard, cruel game and all is right with the world.

Craves.

On the Pink Stink, Ep.3 - The Man in White is not always right

Gawkers,

There is just one certainty to come out of this year's Adelaide Oval test match - the Pink Stink still stinks.
Of course, the game itself was won & lost at the toss.
In the Cannon of the Word according to Chappelli, a captain needs to do but one thing on winning the toss "think about bowling, and then bat".
The only way the England Captain, Dudley Root Esq, could expunge his fatal error of sending Straya in and inviting them to make 300+ [which turned out be 8/442 dec], was to win the match.
The only redemption for Skippy Smiffy's dubious decision to fail to enforce the follow on, on Day 3, was to win the match.
And everybody knows how that worked out.
The scoreboard never lies.
The small saving grace was that Engerland couldn't even bowl Straya out in the first innings and it actually came down to the last day, and who would have thought that a Pink Stink would go on for five days for the first time?
Even that was lucky, it should have ended on Day 3 with the Poms being told to go back in and imploding under impossible circumstances.
But we know that never happened.

With the innumerable number of overturned umpiring decisions, the umps were either absolute shite, or the technology's completely fooked.
You be the judge, but you can't have it both ways.
It's by-and-large the Pink Stink to blame, again, because the ball insists on not behaving itself.
Apparently the unit they were using was the Pink Stink Mk8, and yet they still haven't been able to work it out after all these years - it must drive the manufacturers absolutely crazy.
To wit, in the after dinner session on Day 3...due to the perfect storm of the new ball, inviting damp weather conditions, and the fact that it was bloody dark...the Bamford's would have been well within their rights to call off the sesh due to the state of the shiny pink nut with black seams, under the "dangerous playing conditions" clauses in the Laws.
Someone could have been hit in much more than the box with the pill dipping, darting, shooting, wobbling, curving, swinging both ways, leaping and freaking out off a good length and generally carrying on like a mad dog's breakfast, and the players - never mind the spectators - had no hope of even seeing the gaudy orb at night.
Utterly unplayable and unpredicatable.
Straya were very fortunate to finish the day alive, and in retrospect, got away with it lightly at 4/53.
On account of the video umpire being kept very busy indeed, there has been some discussion on whether the on-field umpires will soon become obsolete, redundant, and appealing to them for a decision will go by the way side, as every ball which has even the remotest possibility of having a batsman out will be automatically determined by some technician operating the infallible DRS machine, making an already slow game, extremely slow.
Who'd be an umpire, anyway?
Cricket is like war, long periods of tediousness, with short bursts of excitement, but the ump has to make a decision on whether to kill a batsman dead or not on the evidence of something that may happen in less than a fraction of a second.
Remember this thing goes on for five days.
Surely, you'd trust the naked eye in real time over pictures on the Crystal Bucket any day - having worked for years in television, it became perfectly clear to me very early on that the camera lies.
So what if The Man in White is not always right?
It all evens out in the end, and you do have lucky and unlucky days.
Adjudication is a matter of judgement and that's where it should rest, for mine; DRS should be used only for assisting the umpires in the matter of run-outs or obstructing the field.
But nothing - nothing - will stop "progress", aka the running-dog money-grubbing posers at Cricket Australia for whom the honky dollar means the be all, and end all, and spout rubbish like: "The 'Amazing Adelaide' test match is widely-regarded as one of Australia's greatest wins", and expect us to believe them.
Bye, bye, Bamfords.
Consigned to being quaint curiosities in village cricket?

Day-night cricket has been problematical from the outset, but a five-day/night Test match?
Bugger tradition, it just upsets time-honoured drinking practices which should not be messed with.
For a start off, the liquid Lunch should be an immovable feast starting at 1pm sharp, rain, hail or shine.
On the crowd FX microphones on the radio & TV, the after dinner session on Day 4 sounded more like an English soccer stadium full of hooligans than a cricket ground, with the incessant "singing" of the Barmy Army echoing around the half empty ring of grandstands purpose built for AFL.
The vuvuzela is more pleasant sounding to the ear.
If the rumour is true that all MCC Members are pissed by 9am during a Lord's Test match, it follows that if the first ball is bowled at 2pm, the possibilities of pre-loading after a Champagne breakfast are endless, and then you can continue to get on it for the next seven-and-a-half hours at the ground.
Woot!
Did note that it was a record accumulative attendance for an Adelaide Oval test match - but that was simply because they let way more people into the ground than there were seats on the first two days.
And they weren't there to see Bodyline.
Many many thousands of people never saw a ball bowled all day as they whiled away the time getting maggoted on pink gins, jugs of Pimm's,"Champers? Darling", Crownies and God only knows what else in the specially constructed Vomitorium out the back of the Member's pavilion.
The crowd figures did not reflect a resurgence in the popularity of attending Test Cricket, rather more an interest in getting as parrotted as possible in a quiet and sociable way.
Of course, with the Members being the respectable and genteel place that it is, there would have been no brawling, or fucking-in-the-flower beds of an evening.
Surely not.
Don't quite know what it is about that very peculiar place called Adelaide, can't put my finger on it, but there is no doubt it's Yobbo Magnet Central, and has been for eons
Must be the town's reputation for depravity.
When the joint was a real cricket ground and it was graced with my presence during the mid '80's [when you could bring yr own esky into the ground and onto the high wide and handsome viewing Mound], and up until the early 90's, [when the 24-can-limit per-person per-day was just being introduced], there was one lout who did a comedy act spending all day staggering about the hill gibbering in an entirely incomprehensible dialect of South Australian English, wearing stubbies, a terry-towling hat, a ridiculous mullett, a deranged look on his face, and a tattered t-shirt that read: ADELAIDE OVAL YOBBO [RETIRED DUE TO POLICE HARASSMENT].
Late in the day, his specialty was getting into fights and comically coming off second best.
Not trying to be nostalgic here, but that's the way Test cricket should be viewed; slobbering drunk that yr so laid back you've almost fallen over in the late afternoon hot baking sun, ideally wearily barracking tired & emotional opposition bowlers up against your team's on-song batsmen.
Even better if it's Poms being belted all over the park and remorselessly ground into the dust on the scoreboard.
The thwack of leather on willow, remember? That sort of thing, old chap.
The ball-by-pink ball call on the wireless in the after dinner sessions deteriorated markedly.
At one stage the Foghorn suggested the reason why the Barmy Army is so barmy is their alleged fondness for the "cool libations"; then followed a short discussion on drinkers with a cricket problem, but somehow Jim - in the course of a just couple of minutes - then went from "everyone needs cordial!" to "you know what they say, never drink port after Champagne".
What the?
The world's gone mad.

What would Pup do?
Said it before, say it again...being the traditionalist that he is, he most likely hates the Pink Stink and would like to see the patently failed experiment shooed off for all time, but he's paid handsomely by the Nine Network to say that day/night test cricket is the best thing since bottled Scotch [or Canadian Club for that matter], on account of it rates its head off, peaking at an estimated 1,299,000 individual viewers nationwide during the evening session on Day 3.
People know what's going on - but it had nothing to do with the hour of the day, folks were home and it was just the match situation.
So Michael's between a rock and a hard place there.
Sorry Clarkey.
We'll pass on that.

After being seriously psychologically damaged by failing to break Straya's 29 year winning streak at the Gabbatoir - copping a gigantic tusk up the runter in Adelbrain to go 2-nil down in a five match series, well, the Poms, you could say, are in more trouble than the early settlers.
Now that they have been well and truly sucked into Australia's very effective "psych-war" known as sledging, complete mental disintegration from here on in is guaranteed.
Their top order is rooted with unfavourable pitches to come, their bowlers aren't as good as the home side's in any conditions, and they have to win at least two of the next three matches.
A draw in Perth wouldn't even cut the mustard, let alone stop the rot for the tourists.
Poms on toast like kippers for breakfast.
Where do you put yr money, or your sheep station, on the dead-set certainty that Sydney will be a very dead rubber?

Craves.

PS> The game is finished...in broad daylight...

the Australian cricket team's moral compass

Pom Baiters,

Trust David "Burbs" Warner to kick off the Ashes series hype a couple of weeks back when he said that "more hatred" was required when playing England at cricket, firmly focusing the Australian team's moral compass.
A couple of days later, the PR people at Cricket Australia forced him to retract the comment saying it was in jest and he didn't really mean it.
My arse.
This from the, formerly disgraced, now Vice Captain Warner who only four years ago clocked the now Captain of England, a bloke known as "Rooty" to his mates, for being an idiot in some dodgy, non-politically correct nightclub known as the Walkabout Bar in Birmingham.
Warner later said he did it because Root was being a twatty ol' clot and a dickhead, and he had his excuses, as he'd had a few Jägerbombs and voddies and Red Bulls, and it was the drink talking and he only got Rooty with "a glancing blow" anyway because he was so pissed and regretted he didn't really connect and deck the little shit out cold - Benny Stokes-style.
Off-field violence aside, Warner is just the ticket for getting inside Pommy heads and driving them utterly insane.
More than one England player has been sent home with mental disintegration problems after getting the treatment.
On being anointed to make his test debut, CT Bancroft was asked how he would approach opening the batting with Warner: "I played against him a Shield game once. He sledged me for four days".
Right on, brother - you've been taught by experts.
Needless to say there is nothing unusual about Strayan selectors going right off piste and coming at you from completely out of left field - you can debate forever who should and shouldn't have been picked - my problem with the current 13-man squad is the fact that it is largely made up of dried up old turds.
Give Chad Sayers a run!
He's on the wrong side of 30 and the Token South Australian, to boot.
At an average age of 28.53 years, only two players are under 25, and Bancroft and Cummins are both 24.
Where's the future in that?
Whatever happened to the young tearaways and child prodigies and the much vaunted policy of selecting the brightest and best from the ranks of the Yoof of Today?
Gorn by the wayside as an imagined exigency...it is the Ashes after all...has the Chairman and the Three Wise Men freaking out.
What would Pup do?
He's got form when it comes to threatening to break "fucking" Pommy bones.
Well, win in Brisbane for a start, he reckons.
If the Poms do that, Straya are toast, by his account.
Simple as that.
No one but the home side has won at the Gabbatoir in the last 29 years - as Bruce Mac is fond of saying, "we know that".
But that was a West Indies team that had Desmond Haynes and Gordon Greenidge opening the batting and a fearsome four-pronged pace attack the likes of which hasn't been seen since with Malcolm Marshall, Courtney Walsh, Patrick Patterson and Curtley Ambrose rolling their arms over.
The Engerlanders certainly haven't got any of that going for them, being the mob of dead-set work-a-day county cricket clock-watching wilting shrinking violets that they are.
However, the whirring brain cogs of MJ Clarke have concluded that victory at The 'Gabba means triumph for the Poms in the series, and they get to take that stoopid little urn home.
Don't you worry about that, Pup, it won't happen at Fortress Brisbane, officially known as "The House of Pain".
And there's a new curator up there now in the form of some unknown called David Sandurski, after Kev Mitchell decided to retire from being in the job for 27 years, so that was always going to be a bit of a worry.
Then, lo, Kev decides to make the Ashes his last hurrah on an honourary basis and lets the television camera's film him riding atop the heavy roller for the very last time.
Vale Kev, job's right, job's done.
With any luck, the Durski Kid will be as patriotic as Kev was being most amenable to Strayan captains' requests to prepare a pitch to order, y'know, put a bit of good ol' doctoring into it and it'll be made sure there's a keg or two in it for the ground staff to keep the boys happy, that sort of thing.
And the coin will then be weighted at the toss.
Captain Smiffy has also revealed to the meejah that he is under pressure from the buffoons at CA "to modify my on-field body language".
Fat chance with Poms involved.
Can't see that happening after he graciously endured the most appalling dirty tricks and tactics seen in living memory displayed by that 24-carat card-carrying nasty piece of filthy cheatin' work, Mr Viralrat Kohli Sir, who recently took great delight in robbing Australia blind in India.
He had every right to be emotional, upset and downright angry at the Laws being bent and broken left right and center by a subcontinental chappie who thinks the sun shines out of his arse.
Any Pom that tries that on better watch out, or Smiffy will get snarly and sool Burbs onto them.
And Dave won't hold back, oh, no siree.
People forgive, but they rarely forget, especially in Ashes cricket.
It's not that we, as a nation, dislike the poor poor English folk as a general rule, we just HATE bastard English cricketers, jeez, there's history here chaps, nobody forgets bloody Bodyline back in the '30's do they?
Which itself was just a natural extension of WG Grace touring here at the end of the 19th century as the quintessential pompous Pommy prick, setting a blazing trail for all who followed.
Wandered into the Front Bar of The Local for a quick one over the weekend, and found the Philosopher in his usual corner - nursing this week's favoured a tipple, a whisky sour - while he was studying a story on the back page of one of the Sunday fishwraps which featured Starkers promising to go for the throat and give the Poms a bit of chin music to go on with at The 'Gabba.
Everybody knows that the Poms don't like the fear up 'em, don't like it up 'em, at all.
The Philosopher poked the paper with his bony finger and remarked "few things give me greater pleasure than seeing Poms ground into the dust, slowly, over five days".
Loose the bears on the midgets and let the gaming begin.

"a piece of dog meat"

Aficionado's

Did like the Foghorn, Jim Maxwell's ABC radio commentary [the match was not on any television - even pay] on the last session of the women's test match at North Sydney Oval last night..."not much happening here, as the game settles into a tortoise-like pace".
Never mind that the Pommettes were playing for the draw.
That may be the problem with the Ladies game in the "long form" and the reason why the last women's test match before this one was two years and three months ago.
Despite the heroics of EA Perry and her 15 mins of fame [it was a fabulous performance, any double-ton in any format of the game - male or female - is not to be sneezed at], and the fact they they do OK with the over rate, with 387 overs bowled in an hour short of four days...the run rate for the match was 2.35 runs per over.
That's an average of 117 runs every fifty overs, with an average of 5.5 wickets taken per day.
Now that's entertainment.

Then there is the uselessicity of the Pink Stink, writ large.
Of note was that one of the male commentators likened the Ladies pink ball to "a piece of dog meat" after about 60 overs of use.
And one of the female commentators remarked that while the Ladies ball, by law, is smaller than the Men's ball...the Ladies pink ball's all weigh roughly the same, but their dimensions apparently differ quite markedly, so it's very important to pick one out of the box of new balls that fits right for the female hand on your team.

mmmm....dunno...
What would Pup do?

"a ridiculous decision and the umps should be held accountable"

Bush lawyers,

Sack the bastards!
The Bamfords are clearly right out of their minds.
Their heads are right done in, goddammit.
What's wrong with a bit of white-knuckle cricket?
Sack 'em all!

http://www.abc.net.au/news/2017-10-16/cricket-australia-investigates-decision-to-call-off-nsw-v-vic/9055302

For the picky, Law 6.2 comes into play here..."the umpires shall be the sole judges of the fitness of the pitch for play".
That's where the buck stops.
On the ground, that's that, but there's nothing preventing people who are not playing from disagreeing with or bagging the umpires before, during, and after a game.
Oh no siree, barrack yr life away.
Never mind Laws 2.7 and 2.8, which demand that it is "solely for the umpires together to decide" what Law 2.7.3 "it would not be sensible for play to proceed", means, under the circumstances.
It's up to the umps, the Bamfords, alone; no one else involved, no appealing under ideal circumstances, but the cheatin' thievin' refs were still surrounded by players, who were told in no uncertain terms it's none of their business.
The sacks of pineapples would have taken utes to distribute.
Oh, sorry, made that bit up, yr Honour.
And the season was on the line, for chrissake!
Lord, help us.

In the meantime "some kind of hatred is in order" it turns out.

http://www.cricket.com.au/news/david-warner-hatred-for-england-ashes-war-australia-verbal-aggression-cummins-starc/2017-10-15

What "kind" for some Poms, 'Burbs?
Sledging is a bit passé, so some Psych War, perhaps?
Maybe just ask Stokesy over after he's finished his anger management course, and see if we can't get him into a spiral of mental disintegration while he's hanging out for a drink.
Done it before.
Cruel game...cricket...just ask Clarkey...anyone remember August 2015?


BTW> Ferdinand has nothing to do with Magellan - merchant investment bankers - who've probs bought the Stupid Little Urn for a song.

ceremonial burning of a stolen Crows scarf

Innocent bystanders,

Did note that after Richmond's win in the Grand Final, coach Damien Hardwick was asked whether he would be taking The Boys down to Swan St, Richmond, to join club die-hards in the wild celebrations.
It'd been a long time.
"No fuckin' way!" he replied "it'd be far too dangerous down there".
One of the commentators on the television said out of the blue soon after half time as if he'd had some kind of epiphany "Oh My God! You can only imagine what it's going to be like in Richmond tonight! I'd hate to think how many pubs there are in Richmond, and they're all old school pubs too!"
And so it came to pass.
Tigers fans have never been known for their couthness in the ranks of AFL club supporters; it's not a very savoury part of Melbourne let's face it, and so there was no end of unconscionable conduct going on.
Including this...enough to engender deep stomach churning disgust and sheer horror among any self-respecting Adelaide fan - a ceremonial burning of a stolen Crows scarf, complete with obscene soundtrack:

http://www.sportingnews.com/au/afl/news/watch-richmond-tigers-burn-adelaide-crows-scarf-swan-st-afl-grand-final-triumph/nxv9x8znj69619y89gjwcc616

That's low.
We can burn what we like up here in the Emerald City, but don't they know that there's laws against that sort of thing in the Colonies?
Adelaide, exactly like the Swans last year, were badly affected by hearing the voices singing..."to lose, the unloseable game"...too many times.
Backed in as un-backable favourites, the players had tossed and turned in their beds all week playing the game over and over in their minds before it started to seep into their dreams, and when that happens, you know yr in deep doggy-doo-doo-voodoo.
Just ask the Swans, they'll tell you; the thought of 2014 reared its ugly head again.
At least the Crows weren't given a ten-goal football lesson, the raging red-hot certainties this year only went down by eight,
Never mind that Adelaide were simply outfoxed and outplayed by a very well coached team that didn't set the world on fire on paper, but did the job on the day.
Again, just like Sydney last year, it was simply a matter of who wanted The Flag the most.
A 37 year gap between drinks beats a 19 year interval since the last Premiership.
Any delirious Richmond fan who'd put down a case or two of 1980 Grange or Château Lafite to crack open next time they won the Premiership would find that it might be seriously sensational drinking this week, but you'd have to doubt that many Tigers fans would have extended to that.
Any cheap piss they did cellar would be well off by now, vinegar maybe even, it's been that long.
The fact of the matter is that Adelaide were carrying no fewer than eleven passengers who'd been shut down by Richmond - Adelaide's forwards were very effectively neutralised - and the Crows were spanked, and spanked good, held goal-less in the second quarter - albeit with a little help from the dirty cheatin' Umpires - bloody Bamfords! Crows fans cried.
But the ship was already listing by half time, and with everything on the line and all to play for, it came down to the Championship Quarter, as it always does in virtually every game.
Richmond rolled Adelaide over and they copped a gigantic tusk up the runter; the Tigers winning the Champo five goals to one and the strains of the Fat Lady singing on the Punt Road could be heard over the roar of the crowd at the cricket ground.
The last quarter was just a football exhibition - it was game over, goodnight nurse, not even close.
In any case, by rights, it should have been South Melbourne who were whumping the Crows in the Grand Final, but that's venturing off to Fantasy Land there.
You have to begrudgingly admire a bloke who looks for all the world like an inner-suburban thug in D.Martin who won the Chas, the Normie, and The Flag all in the same week.
Not too many have done that before, and - bugger the record books - it certainly makes for some stellar contributions to the gaudy trophy cabinet behind in the bar in Dusty's man cave at home.
As usual, everyone north of the River Murray couldn't give a blue root about the AFL Grand Final, and the NRL Grand final between Melbourne [Melbourne? WTF are Melbourne doing in the Sydney rugby league Grand Final?] and North Queensland [which wasn't sold out for good reason] was little better.
So, with no Sydney teams in either Big One, the 'care factor' was on the low side...it was a very quiet long weekend in this town.
Swans loyalists had had their "rue the day" moment in the 2nd Semi-Final, and the Mighty Balmain Tigers' run was over well before they narrowly avoided the Wooden Spoon to finish 14th at end of the regular season.
Not another winter of discontent.
So, in order not to bore you and shit you to tears for months on end again next year - on my solemn promise - there is no way in this wonderful wide world that football of any code will interest me in any way whatsoever from now on.
Won't give a stuff about season 2018...won't hear a word of it...you can bet on it...a certainty...
Promise.

AFL Grand Final 2017

ADELAIDE: 4.2, 4.7, 5.10, 8.12 (60). Goals. Sloane 2, Walker 2, Betts, Greenwood, B. Crouch, Cameron.
RICHMOND: 2.3 , 6.4, 11.8, 16.12 (108). Goals: Graham 3, Townsend 2, Martin 2, Riewoldt 2, Caddy, Houli, Grigg, Lambert, Castagna, Prestia, Butler.
At Melbourne Cricket Groud.
Crowd: 100,021.

NRL Grand Final 2017

MELBOURNE STORM 34. Tries: Addo-Carr (2), Kaufusi, Slater, Finucane, Scott. Goals: Smith (5).
NORTH QUEENSLAND COWBOYS 6. Tries: Martin. Goals: Lowe (1).
At Sydney Olympic Stadium, Homebush.
Crowd: 79,722

"looked a bit buggered"

Devastatee's,

Even for the eternal pessimist, it was so easy to forget the time back then when 'all hope was lost'.
Sydney were gone - gorn for all money - after Round 6 of the regular season.
They were completely cactus in anyone's language.
Toast.
No team had ever come back after straight losses to Port, Dogs, Pies, Weagles, GWS, and Carlton to make the Top 8.
It was season over right there and then with some tough teams still to come.
But then...
For months on end, false hope was engendered by winning 15 of their next 17 matches, and against all odds they did make the finals, as undoubtedly the 'form' team of the comp.
The Bush Telegraph in the corner of the loungeroom chattered into life just after half time in the semi-final; ripped off the tickertape to find it was a message from My Spy at The Ground.
"Season over. The Banjo is full of penny bungers and it's on the fire. One, just one, lesson learnt. Never lose six on the trot. Ever"
Had a bad feeling in my water about the Geelong game pretty early on, on match day.
Had to perform an enormous nervous shit straight after coffee, just for a start off.
Dangermouse, Selwood, Hawkins, Motlop etc etc; Geelong'd been disgraced the week before by Richmond - beware the wounded Cats, that sort of thing.
It was made worse, this bad feeling, by the fact that all the so-called pundits had been tipping a saloon passage for the Swans through to the Prelim against Adelbrain, also away, in a "Promoter's Dream".
But, Coach General C.Scott had other ideas, and he must have laboriously gone through the video tapes of the Swans two losses to Hawthorn frame-by-frame, to have a very good lookie at what they did right.
[Saw the second loss to the Hawks on the international satellite television while in Port Vila, and thought to myself "mmm, there's a few chinks in the armour there", but convinced myself that it was only the kava talking.]
So, Scott employed the very same tactics, and also told his players to suck in the Umpires with a few judicious "dives" in front of goal, and suck the Swans into putting all their eggs into one basket trying to shut down the Boogey Man Geelong Dangermen, leaving the Cats with loose men everywhere.
Worried out it they were, and in any case it was pretty clear that Sydney had played the match too many times in their heads already.
It was plain for all to see that Plan A wasn't working from fairly early on, and SC Horse was also sucked in by not employing Plan B and then Plan C, before it was way too late.
Never mind that the Swans just didn't turn up to play.
Still gurgling and frothing at the mouth over that particular one.
It's not as if they put on a jolly good show and made a close run of things to go down gallant in defeat by a handful of points.
They were thrashed senseless, after their previous biggest loss of the season was in Round 1, by five goals.
It always begs the unfathomable and unanswerable question - WHY NOW?
It reminded me very much of the '14 Grand Final, having just flown in on the morning of the match from Paris via a couple of days in Saigon having missed the entire finals series but looking forward to an easy Premiership win, only to see them taken apart by their nemesis, the bloody Hawks, again.
Found myself asleep on the lounge at half-time through jet-lag and awoke to find the Swans had been done like a dinner in a ten-goal football lesson.
The similarities were plain eerie.
Six goals down at the main break again and also whipsawed by ten goals at the finish, and, just quietly, the Swans score of 5.9 [39] was their lowest, in any game, in 20 years...twenty years!
The Stats Guru also found it his melancholy duty to report, after whirring the beads on his abacus in a desultory fashion, that it was the South Melbourne's lowest score in a finals match in a century.
The Swans kicked 3.17 [35] in the semi-final against Collingwood in 1917, for chrissake.
Thanks Guru, didn't need to know that.
There's nothing worse than ending up as burnt toast in The Big One, so perhaps, just perhaps, it was better to be found out in a semi-final rather than on That One Day in September, when losing becomes excruciatingly unbearably painful.
Geelong had not lost a game all season after leading at quarter time; guessing that that's why they finished second on the ladder.
Just goes to show yet again the critical importance of finishing in the top 4 and getting the second bite at the juicy cherry; the Cats had already had their 'off day', but they lived to fight another...in quick succession.
Longmire, after giving his charges an almighty gobful at quarter-time, and an even bigger rocket up the runter at half-time, had pretty much given up on them mid-way through the Championship Quarter, and by the final stanza the television camera's showed him beginning to nod off in the Coach's Box - he'd had enough - there was nothing he could about it.
After pulling out all the hair that he had left on his bonce, SC Horse fronted the press on interview after the debacle and simply said "Our blokes looked a bit buggered tonight, to be honest".
A bit buggered?
It didn't auger well from the off, when Lance Franklin appeared on the ground with a pure morphine poultice strapped to his corked thigh; clearly injured - would not have played but for the fact it was a semi-final - so it was an open invitation to the Cats, they just put two rotating tags on him and squashed him flat...he was two or three yards too slow, all day.
No Buddy goals, no cigar.
The Swans were carrying nine passengers - they know who they are - who had less than a dozen touches each.
In an 18-man boat, you can't get very far with that many crew doing nothing on the oars.
Just as a random sample, Sinclair went from absolutely huge one week, to touching the ball but twice the next.
He had two blokes and the Bamfords on his back, all day.
SC Horse then went on to concede the bleeding obvious "We didn't really fire a shot".
Not at a goal a quarter after quarter time, they didn't.
Nope.
It was a very good thing that betting on football is not really my thing, as you wouldn't want to be the punter who'd had $100,000 on the Swans straight out at $1.38.
A certainty gone badly awry, and the bookies would have been laughing all the way to the Tattersalls Club.
And it's a shame that Old Man Jarrad "Odd Head" McVeigh went out a loser on being admitted as an AFL Life Member by playing in his 300th game, but as JPK pointed out post-match "it's season over and we have a long six months ahead of us".
Don't we all, Josh?
2017 is gorn.
All that we now have left to cling to is to wish the Greater Western Sydney Pygmies the best of British luck in their quest for an inaugural Grand Final berth.
They are an excellent team now, and good on them if they make it, but even after taking full advantage of super generous draft concessions and the reported $25M+ cash the AFL has tipped into the vast pit that is the "second Sydney experiment", they still can only attract the lowest AFL/VFL finals crowd [14,865] since World War One...at the Sydney Showground...their home ground.
No-one there to hear the Fat Lady sing.
Ouch.
Aerial Ping Pong still has a long way to go in the heartland of rugby league in Sydney's Armpit, and let's face it, it will never be the dominant winter sport on this side of the island.
Maybe us fool Swans supporters, as The Professor obliquely suggested, have wasted far too much time and money on trying the re-live the "Miracle Year" of '05; what's the point of trying to be better than perfect?
That's a long time ago now, and this is an eternal pessimist speaking.
Missed.
Bugger It.

AFL 2nd Semi-Final 2017

GEELONG: 3.0, 9.4, 13.4, 15.8 (98). Goals: Dangerfield 4, Menzel 2, Menegola 2, Duncan 2, Stanley, Smith, Motlop, Hawkins, Blicavs
SYDNEY: 2.2, 3.4, 4.9, 5.9 (39). Goals: Jack, McVeigh, Mills, Papley, Reid.
At Melbourne Cricket Ground.
Crowd: 55,529.

Mungo Jerry comes to the SCG

Ecstaticists,

While die-hard supporters of other, mediocre, clubs may well fervently disagree, isn't it great to see the Swans on fire at the pointy end of the season?
An exploding fireball rolls across the field destroying all the Bombers before they could even get off the ground.
Caught by surprise, out-witted, out-classed, and then fully out-played.
JPK leads the team by example, earning the Best on Ground award.
Sinclair knew when he kicked his third goal, with a wink of the eye to the bloke who delivered him the ball, that he has at last cemented his place in the side as Tipsy "fails to fire" in the NEAFL Grand Final [Sydney somehow lost to Brisbane by three points. Go figure. Lessons to be leart there. And just how much are they paying Kurt to play in reserve grade?]
Heeney The Cardiff Zucchini gets a broken nose, but plays on regardless, going beyond the pain barrier.
Parker, in his 150th game, ripped the heart out of Essendon's mid-field, while Jones, Mills and Grundy locked down the backline with great effect.
Whoever said Dean Towers can't play is lying.
But what stood out, for mine, was the spectacular steady marking from the talls, and the accuracy of the smalls.
The Swans hardly dropped a ball all day.
Champagne football.
After all, Strayan Rules isn't rocket science...the team that can cleanly catch the ball and kick straight, usually wins.
And everybody talkin' 'bout Lance Franklin, and what a superb big game players he is.
And how's Buddy's form, just quietly?
Kicks a bag of ten goals in the last game of the regular season, then in the first final, cops a "bad corky" on his non-kicking leg in his first tackle of the game, shakes it off and gets around a bit proppy in the first quarter, then comes out and kicks four goals in the second stanza just to keep the cork warm, spends the Championship Quarter on the stationary bicycle with a big smile on his face humming the old Mungo Jerry toon "just riding along on my pushbike, honey", and then SC Horse decides that he's not required at all in the final quarter, and doesn't call on him, given the issue was by then well beyond doubt, and he needed to save his legs.
Did like Buddy on interview on the crystal bucket before the game when he said "the thing I have enjoyed most this season is teaching the young forwards I'm playing with at the moment how to play the game mentally".
L.Franklin, of all blokes, knows the fundamental importance of this, and as he openly admits - 2015 is "well documented" - he learnt the hard way.
Nothing can replace being taught by experts.
The Fat Lady started singing when the Swans had a ten goal lead at half time.
Sydney piled on 10 goals to register their biggest quarter of the season, and as the Stats Guru was quick to point out, it was also the club’s equal best second term ever... ever...in the entire history of the South Melbun/Sydney Football club.
Yet more firsts.
And doesn't Sydney like a winner?
The biggest crowd seen at HQ for a Rules match in 20 years [admittedly the ground has been re-developed since then, with total capacity now officially published as 48,601].
Sydneysiders get really interested when their team starts handing out thumpings.
None of this low scoring defensive rubbish seen in the first two Qualifying Finals.
[In the other Eliminator, Port, btw, were not hard done by, they only had themselves to blame for not being able to put the Weagles away].
It's always noice after the opening finals weekend when two teams are eliminated from the off... because things start to become so much clearer...and, of course, there are now only three possible combinations of teams that can play in the Grand Final:
1. Sydney Swans v Richmond Tigers.
2. Sydney Swans v GWS Pygmies.
3. Sydney Swans v West Coast Weagles.
Probably in that order.
Admittedly, Sydney has a lot of hoeing to do before then - the way will be long and the road will be hard - having to tackle the Deadly Hume as the team bus makes it's way down to the MCG this weekend so they can whip-saw the 2nd placed out-of-form Geelong Cats, before catching the overnight Overland Express train to Adelaide Oval to have the Minor Premiers, the Pride of South Australia, like kippers on toast for breakfast in front of their home crowd in a football exhibition, to qualify for the season decider.
Phew...
Some good training, there, but.
And they have to do it in a hurry.
Of course, the Swans Marketing Dept have hedged their bets and put out limited-edition merch in the form of "Defy The Odds" scarves in the hope of quick sales in case it all goes belly-up, and you could be forgiven for thinking that we might be getting a bit ahead of ourselves here, nay, preaching to the converted, but Sydney has to beat 1st and 2nd on the ladder, away, after all [when they do that - they might as well just give them the Premiership Cup without bothering to play on that One Day in September], but eh, bru, miracles have already happened; making the finals at all after a 0-6 start to the season - cop that, never happened before in 121 years, and is unlikely to ever happen again.
Still Super Coach Longmire must be a lay-down-misère for 2017 Coach of The Year, as he's made his usual vow of never being caught on camera smiling during the finals, indeed, looking extremely worried throughout, and while he was required to say in his post-match press conference, predictably, that he is taking it one match at a time, what he's really doing is a plottin' and a schemin' for The Atonement; he wants this flag, and wants it real bad.
With the losers now forgotten from here on in, SC Horse gave absolutely nothing away:

It's business time...

SYDNEY: 3.2, 13.5, 17.5, 19.7 (121). Goals: Franklin 4, Towers 3, Sinclair 3, Kennedy 2, Rohan 2, Heeney 2, Papley, Jack, Lloyd.
ESSENDON: 1.3, 3.4, 5.8, 8.8 (56). Goals: Daniher 3, Begley 2, Myers, Fantasia, Heppell.
At Sydney Cricket Ground.
Crowd: 46,323. [Ground record for AFL match].

mad monday

Long-sufferers,
So, a 12th fruitless season comes to an end, and Mad Monday finally arrives.
At least we can now put on women's clothing and drink heavily.
Said it before, say it again...jeez...Balmain are a hard team to follow.
It's exhausting when you are in a death fight with Newcastle for months on end to avoid the Wooden Spoon, which [wipe of brow] they did, and actually leapt into 14th on the table on percentage in a 16 team comp, after winning the last game of the season
However, when you are just about the first team of the year to have no hope of making the top eight, that makes it tough.
Seven wins in a 24 game season is a long time between drinks in a bitter winter.
And it makes it even worse when quite a few of the really important games were lost by small margins, never mind finishing near the bottom of the ladder...there aren't even any draft picks as compensation as there is no draft in the rugby league...money does the talkin'.
Just two finals appearances in the last 12 seasons.
None in the last six.
The Stats Guru also reckons that in a 13-a-side game, the Tiges fielded no less than 29 players in first-grade this year.
Not exactly a "settled team".
The appalling litany of hideous woe goes on.
It still hasn't ceased to amaze me how a team can look a million dollars on paper for years, and still can't get anywhere with it.
The worst team money can buy?
Surely not.
It seemed the season just lurched from one disaster to another - as usual.
As everyone knows, the season got off to a magnificent auspicious start, with the dysfunctional board finally sacking coach Squeak Taylor at long long long last for being a fool to himself and a burden on the football community, not to mention just being a very difficult turd.
Ivan "Clearly It's" Cleary is plucked out of obscurity to coach, on a not great record viz-a-viz the ol' win/loss track record - and then does nothing at all for the rest of the year to improve it.
Then the club's three best players walk.
Moses throws the Tablets down from the Mount in a hissy fit and worms his way out of the rest of his contract and goes to Parramatta, where he finds a purple patch helping the Eels into the Top 4 for the first time in eons, so he now has a reasonable chance at berth in the Grand Final [that everybody knows will be won by the Storm].
The best full-back in the known world, James Tedesco, then immediately signs on the dotted line for a King's Ransom at Eastern Suburbs, but finds his Balmain contract is as water tight as Huon pine, and he has to play on in the Black and Gold for the rest of the year, but to his credit, has a very good season under trying circumstances to prove he is worth every cent that the Roosters can pay him.
Good luck to him, he wants to win a Premiership too, and why not?
Anyone would pay Teddy big money, and Easts finished second on the ladder this year without him - who knows what they'll do next year with him.
Chances are he'd be waiting all career at Leichhardt, ending up without so much as a sausage.
Captain Woodsy links up with the evil Canterbury-Bankstown mob, plays on at Balmain, but only gets about 20 mins game time in the State of Origin's, and loses interest in club football as the season wears on, and then finds karma could come back to bite him on the arse.
Seems while he has a contract at the 'Dogs, Woody's deal is yet to be signed off at League HQ until they have had a very good look at Canterbury's salary cap arrangements, and if the cards fall the wrong way, Woodsy might not be able to fit in under the cap at his current price and Clearly It's Cleary has made it clear "we are not going to retain Woods in a fire sale. There is no offer on the table..."
Aaron's plaintive cry of "I would never have left if I knew Cleary was coming" has obviously fallen on stone deaf ears.
Ah...rugby league - a brutal game on the field and a cruel one off the park - that's why we love it!
And there's never any shortage of palace intrigue, rumour and innuendo, unconscionable conduct and sheer bastardry.
Won't even mention the time mid-season when some players were arrested on "affray" charges after an all-in brawl in some seedy bar spilled over onto the Balmain Road, and spent overnight in the local lock-up to get sober.
A real traffic-stopper.
Only Luke Brooks of "the big four" remains for 2018, but while there's no doubt he's 'the goods' - he's had an ordinary '17 struggling with chronic niggles.
Cleary, at least, has brought in a few reasonably good journeymen on a couple of matchday beers and a cut lunch contracts and blooded a some promising youngsters, but hey - where's the quality full-back, five-eighth, whole pack of forwards, not to mention a new Captain for '18?
There are a couple of new Islander boys who are built like brick shit houses - really athletic men mountains who can play - they'll go far, you'd think.
The 18-year-old debutant Moses Suli, and the imported Tuimoala "The LoLo" Lolohea come to mind.
It's the way the game is going anyway; the side with the biggest artillery usually wins.
Then the whole damn caper comes full circle with the announcement that the Prodigal Son, The Great Benji Marshall, will make a return to the club next year in only god knows what sort of capacity at the real arse end of his career, at age 32.
Been warming a bench somewhere while he's been away.
He should never have left anyway, but that's another long, tawdry story you can read elsewhere in this thingy.
Only half jokingly, Benj says he's coming back on board to play "18th man".
And in a very bizarre twist, Benji's brother, 21-year-old Jeremy Marshall-King made his NRL debut for the Tiges in the final game of the year.
My head is spinning.
Among the flaming wreckage of the season - special, notable and honourable mention should be made of Chris Lawrence who struck me as such a "Try Scoring Freak" early on in his career in the centres, that it became his middle name.
The quintessential club man goes and equals Benji Marshall's all-time try scoring record for the Balmain/Wests Tigers joint venture.
Club Life Member, 209 games, 76 tries, in an 11 year career - turns 30 next year, and is newly contracted for another two seasons to end his illustrious career in the second row.
A dead-set genuine champion who never gets the credit that is his due, which may have something to do with his nick name "Rowdy"; he'd rather break yr back and tear yr throat out than look at you on the field, but he is the meekest, mildest-mannered kind of regular guy you could ever meet by all reports; the compleat gentleman, off the paddock.
Something every footballer should aspire to; sheer class, modesty...there are more than enough show ponies in the game as it is.
But as they say in The Classics - "there's always next year" - even though the prospects for '18 don't augur that well.
Supported this mob through thick and thin for more than 30 years now [for three grand finals and one premiership]; you do that, and you learn all there is to learn about hope.
Take it up the middle, and scream down the blindside.
Go you Mighty Tiiiiges!

The very last match played in the NRL regular season 2017 - Game No. 192.

WESTS TIGERS 28. Tries: Naiqama (2), Lolohea, Marsters, Nofoaluma. Goals: Lolohea (4).
NEW ZEALAND WARRIORS 16. Tries: Kata, Tuivasa-Sheck, Nicoll-Klokstad. Goals: Luke (2).
At Leichhardt Oval.
Crowd: 10,231.

Shock! Horror!

Loyalists,
Oh no!
Shock! Horror!
A whole weekend without any football?
In Melbourne?
Have they gone mad?
The good burghers of the Athens of the South will be beside themselves with absolutely nothing to do, as the AFL in its infinite wisdom again deciding to take the weekend off ahead of the finals.
There are Veteran's and Ladies matches scheduled to try and fill the gap, but it's not the same.
OK, it' been a long season for the players -- the poor things - but you'd expect that, at peak match fitness, they would be itching to rip into each other in the race for The Flag, while the fans are left bereft.
It's beyond me.
Still, Melburnians better get used to it, with only two Melbun teams in the top eight - there's two from Sydney, two from Adelaide, and one from the Golden West, while Geelong is certainly not in Melbourne by any stretch of the imagination.
Tell that to anyone down Corio Bay way, and they'll deck you.
It really is a minor miracle that the Swans are in the top 8, after losing their first six games of the season.
It didn't take long for the Stats Guru to work out that no team has ever achieved the feat in the 23 year history the top eight finals system.
And who cares that its been almost 20 years [Crows, 1998] since a team has come from outside the top four to win the Premiership?
If anyone can do it from sixth, Sydney can, after winning 14 or their last 16 games of the regular season.
As the Guru points out - if they had only won those two stupid games against Hawthorn, where they lost by a bloody point, and then a single goal - Sydney would have won the Minor Premiership.
In the back half of the season, the Swans beat all of the teams who finished in the top four -- so, surely, with Super Coach Horse calling the shots - they fear no one.
No one at all.
So, let's have a brief look at these jokers in the top 8, and their chances of thieving the Big One off the Swans.

1. Adelaide (9/4). Will probably win it, have the best team, but also a long history of shooting themselves in the foot, to wit, losing last game of the regular season to West Coast. The Curse of the Minor Premiership to contend with. Go close.
2. Geelong (5/1). The Bogey Man team. No-one likes playing the Cats, with good reason. Top chance if the cards fall the right way for them.
3. Richmond (5/1). Enigma. How did they finish 3rd? Who knows? They must have had a dream draw while no-one was looking. Likely to go out early, or could surprise, again.
4. GWS (4/1). Has the team to do it, but must return to early season form. Less than ideal warm up for finals losing last two games of regular season. Hankering for this. Top chance.
5. Port Adelaide (12/1). Dark horse. Been lurking around the top eight all year, and an outside chance of saluting the judges at good odds.
6. Sydney (4/1) In form team of the comp, sweeping all before them, except for one hoodoo side. Playing Champagne football at the pointy end of the season. Should be outright second favourite. Will go deep into September.
7. Essendon (40/1). Pretenders. Little hope.
8. West Coast (50/1). Very lucky to be in the finals at all, squeezing into the top eight on a 0.08% differential on for and against. No hope.

And who knew that L.Franklin would kick a bag in one of the best performances of his stellar career in the final match of the minor round?
Well the player and the coach did, from the outset, for mine
No one has kicked ten goals in a game in two years, and the highlight reel has been sent straight around to the National Film and Sound Archives.
My reading of it is it was all a well laid plan involving a bit of quid pro quo between Buddy and SC Horse.
Longmire might have said to him "now look Buddy, we'll make this Carlton mob toast, so what I want you to do is play like an old-school full-forward, don't stray out of the goal square or your pocket, and I'll get the mid-field to put it on yr chest so you can kick as many as you like and win a fourth Coleman Medal, but in return, I want you to win the Premiership for me".
Buddy would have jumped at the chance.
[It's not like the olden days, when proper full-fowards used to boot 100 goals a season, e.g. Plugger did it for the Swans in '98 and Warwick Capper did the triple figures twice in '86 & '87].
A bit of bling around the neck and something else for the trophy cabinet never hurts, but Lance is looking for redemption and sweet revenge after being unable to play in the 2015 finals through illness that was no fault of his own, and he experienced the unspeakable cruelty of being ROBBED BLIND in last year's Grand Final against the Western Bulldogs, who this year have been exposed as the frauds that they always were, failing to make the top eight.
The Stats Guru says it's been eight years since the reigning premiers have not featured in the top eight.
At long last the Swans mid-field is on fire - they could afford to rest the Hannebery Kiddie and the Papley Pearl in the last game after they'd been bashed from pillar to post in the back half of the season.
It's always handy to have two ruckmen - everyone knows it's the last chance saloon for Tipsy, while Sinclair is one of the most under-rated players going 'round.
Remember, West Coast traded Sinclair for Lewis Jetta, who can hardly get a game.
Guess who got the best end of the pineapple out of that one?
With Odd Head McVeigh and Old Man Grundy in form - what they lack in a yard or three of pace they more than make up for with footy smarts, both having football brains the size of watermelons - the backline is even more impregnable.
Appointing The Great JPK as skipper was a masterstroke, while the Coach's Pet, the Goal Kicker for North Adelaide in the form of Will Hayward can have just three touches in the game and score three goals, or something or another like that.
It's in his contract.
You have to be very very sorely tempted to take the 4/1 being offered about Sydney.
What's not to like?
So, relax, get mellow, knocked out, copastatic, this weekend - there's nothing else to do - and then we'll see what happens, eh?
Bring it on.

SYDNEY: 3.4, 6.7, 13.10, 21.12 (138). Goals: Franklin 10, Hayward 3, Rohan 3, Tippett, Reid, Kennedy, Heeney, Newman.
CARLTON: 1.0, 5.1, 8.4, 8.9 (57). Goals: Boekhorst 3, Curnow 2, Kruezer, Casboult, Pickett.
At Sydney Cricket Ground.
Crowd: 38,965.

Cheer, Cheer.

the most enormous reserves bench on the face of this earth

Football sides are meant to be made up of 18 players with a few reserves on the bench, right?
So what is wrong with the above photo?
Had the good fortune to be at the annual Strayan Rules Reclink Community Cup grudge match at Henson Park, Marrickville, between the Sailors and Whalers, on a picture-postcard perfect late winter's day in the Emerald City last weekend.
The Musicians had the team called the Sydney Whalers, who took on the shonks in the Media who had the moniker of the Sydney Sailors.
In the five previous editions of the match, the Muso's had never won; outsmarted, outmaneuvered and played like a fiddle by those shifty, shady types in the meejah.
There's always an artistic argument about who gets the most airplay and which band or that gets high rotation etc etc etc.
So, it was on.
A full, properly umpired, 18-a-side serious Strayan Rules football match of four full quarters, mixed-sex with local rules [i.e...the boyo's were not permitted to smash the gals in a tackle, but the ladies could take on a bloke - and there were some big tattooed bruisers among them, who took great delight in tackling and dumping hefty men into the turf - and when the ball was being contested by two players of the same sex, it was anything goes - and the most enormous reserves bench on the face of this earth], for both sides.
It was the second year in a row since happening upon this extraordinary thing, and found myself again supporting The Red and The White Sailors - same colours as the beloved Swans AND, of course, could only show my solidarity with the media team, being a prominent retired disgraced former Sydney radio & TV journo.
A couple of old friends from London were in town and decided to tag along to the ball park, on the promise of a carnival atmosphere.
What they call in the tourist brochure's: "the quintessential Aussie experience for a tenner'.
Five dollars in, and a fiver for an Official Program, with free parking inside the ground for earlybirds and cripples.
["I wouldn't park there if I were you mate, the ball could dent a few panels where you are"].
One of the Poms had never seen a game of Strayan Rules being played before, and appeared to be quite taken with the highly unusual nature of it.
Once you'd gone through the mantra of "and it's six points for a kick through the big sticks and a point for anything between the little sticks" stuff, he eventually made out the rules about half way through, but the difference between "holding the ball" and "dropping the ball" eluded him to the end
"where did this game originate from?"
"oh, there is much debate about that, but it goes well back into the 1800's , and basically it's a game some dude dreamt up to give cricketers something to do in the winter".
"ah, that makes sense now. very clever."
There were about five or six thousand folks in for the match; of all sorts and stripes, from babes in arms to creaking ancient folk, extended families, picnickers, millennials, yuppies, hippies, funny drunkards, old stoners and too many dogs, yes dogs; a couple of loose hounds had to be shooed off the ground at the start of the Champo, after it had been taken over by hundreds of spectators [and dogs] for a big Kick-to-Kick at the long break.
Footies flying everywhere.
There was someone dressed as a jester in the crowd, there was a hula-hoop girl, cheer squads with pom-pom girls for both sides, water boys, ambulance personnel and an army of volunteers, as well as an attractive merch stand, two bars, and typically rudimentary toileting arrangements; old style latrines and things underneath the brick Scorer's Box near the tennis courts.
In a sad indictment of the times, you could not buy a meat pie for love nor money, and yet vegan hot dogs were freely available.
You heard me right - yes, vegan hot dogs, with real American mustard.
Go figure.
But, the carnivores among the carnival goers were well catered for with whopping wood smoked burgers in a brioche bun - straight in, down the gullet, thank you very much.
No idea what was going on in the Mexican food van, but they probably came from Melbourne.
The Bloke from London was most impressed with the lay-out at the "old brickpit" at Henson Park, being an aficionado of historic architecture.
Particularly the original King George V Memorial Grand Stand, built in 1936, the year the King died, after the sports field project was finished after filling in the quarry as a Great Depression work-creation project in 1933.
And he's still there, apart from the odd lick of paint - hasn't changed at all in 80 odd years.
You can still see the brick walls of the old pit up in the north-western corner of an expansive spectator hill, but it's better sitting on the aluminum bleachers in the shadows of the old King's stand as the sun goes down behind your back.
The Whalers got off to a blinder with a five goal first quarter; a blitzkrieg, whip-sawing the Sailors, who struggled to even get the ball to their end of the ground.
The Sailors steadied the ship in the second quarter, but were still a few goals behind at half-time, and with the early ascendancy for the Whalers, things were looking a bit grim for meejah.
The Member for Grayndler, the Hon. Anthony Albanese MHR aka "DJ Albo" played for the Muso's team last year, but a lack of commitment to training this year saw him assume the role of assistant coach of the Whalers.
He was obviously very good at it, brooking no possibility whatsoever other than a glorious victory for working men and women playing musical instruments.
A punter near me on the bleachers was leafing through the Official Program, and, pointing to the team list in disgust, cried out loud.
"How did so-and-so get a game?? He's no bloody musician. He's just a drummer in some band, you know?"
Albo was in good form on the Tannoy, describing the Sailors as the "Evil Murdoch Empire" or just calling them "the Murdochs" for short.
And decrying the fact that the Federal Gumnut had just given FOX hundreds of millions of dollars in free taxpayers money to cover "minority sport", but he did acknowledge that the Tories had also tipped in a fair truckload of cash into the charity [Reclink provides sporting and educational opportunities for disadvantaged yoofs], and he was pleased with that bi-partisan support, which he promised would continue under a Labor Government.
A consummate retail politician is Albo, who lists his main recreation as "beating Tories"; and a jovial bloke to boot, always ready with a smile and a joke, at ease with his popularity among the good burghers of his electorate; the faithful.
The Bloke from London learned that there are still a lot of Pinko's left in the Marrickville area, even after the yuppie scum bought in.
It used to be solid working class; factory workers, Greeks, Italians, Portuguese mainly, living in worker's terrace houses that now go for north of a million smackeroonies, baby.
It wasn't until after the game as we walked out behind a set of goal posts that the Londoner realised what an important & difficult job the goal umpire has to do, give the quite small, but a very tall target - in theory, infinitely tall.
The scoreboard never lies.
At one point the Pom had to be corrected when he yelled out "good catch" when someone took a screamer, being informed that it was more correct to call out "oooaah, whaddascreamer!" or just "onya, great mark there, mate!" would do, if he was playing for your team.
At another point felt myself compelled to yell out in contempt " 'BAALLL!! whaddya reckon'bouthatforajoke - UM-PIIIRE?!!" and the other Pom with us turned to me knowingly with a sunny smile on her face and said "I have absolutely no idea what it was you just said".
Assured her that there would be no point even beginning an explanation, let alone a long discussion on the finer points of barracking.
There was an entirely naked male streaker in the third quarter, clearly drunk as per tradition, no security required here; raised a good laugh - "show us ya donger!" - and there was a fair degree of a hootin' and a hollerin' when a, female - - how do you say this? - "rather shapely" female streaker appeared on the ground in the last quarter - fully nude - except for a picnic rug draped over her shoulders, which she then wrapped herself up in at at the completion of her run across the ground - the match, of course, continued as normal as if nothing was going on.
The Ground Announcer said on the Tannoy "ah, ya gotta love the RecLink Cup, where too much nudity is barely enough!"
Boom Boom!
Happens every year.
Reliably informed that the beer ran out just after three-quarter time after rationing of two cans per person was introduced at half-time, due to the unexpected size of the crowd.
But what did that matter with the historically & creatively named Henson Park Hotel just up there by the back entrance to the ground?
It was a bloody good well contested, well umpired, game of footy too...excellent standard for a social match...some could really play...good talls among the men, a couple of top goal kickers, and there were some first class crumbers and rovers among the women, who generally had better kicks-in-play on them.
The Sailors put up a good fight in the Champo but they could never get ahead with catch-up football and the five goal margin remained at the finish.
Local legend and on-field hard bastard, Freddy Crabbs, of the Whalers was awarded Best on Ground, to much acclaim.
It was noted that Shane "Mummy" Mumford, formerly of the Sydney Swans, now of the Greater Western Sydney Giants, was at at the ground, and found out that both teams had been training together for this for many weeks under the guidance and tutelage of the Great Mummy, who was a towering figure at the Presentation of the Cup, the day after playing for the Pygmies in the AFL game in Canberra.
With about a minute to go, and the result clearly beyond doubt - all of the 80 footy players listed in the Official Program, 40 a side + "emergencies" as well as the coaching staff and hangers-on, cleared the bench, and ran onto the ground - everyone - for an all-in free-for-all: Suburban Strayan Style.
And the crowd went ape-shit.
A happy chaos, mad minute.


SYDNEY WHALERS: 11.6 (72).
SYDNEY SAILORS: 6.3 (33).
At Henson Park, Marrickville.
Crowd: 6,000 [est.]