without so much as a sausage

Disappointee's,

As one who has followed the kid's career since he was a teenager and went on to become the finest, most stylish, heavy-run-scoring test batsman of his generation, and was marked out for the Captaincy early on, you'd expect that his unexpected comeback from retirement would be of some passing interest to me.
No one doubts my loving the bloke, but there he was at Pratten Park in Ashfield, just a couple of suburbs down the Old Canterbury Rd from my gaff and a few suburbs east of the streets of fear, batting for Western Suburbs, who were running stonemotherless last in the Sydney District Cricket 1st grade comp with zero points, before he was called up.
The Stats Guru discovered the ground was opened in 1912 and was named after some long-forgotten municipal grandee and according to the official listing is: "very simple in its facilities. There is a small grandstand in the north-western corner with the rest of the ground surrounded by grass hills. For several years the grandstand had fallen into disrepair and had been closed; but restoration work saw it re-opened in late 2007".
The bush telegraph in the corner of the loungeroom chattered into life on Saturday evening, picked up the tickertape, to see a message from my Spy at The Ground reporting that MJ Clarke, batting at No.4, had put together a rusty looking 48 for Wests, against a reasonably handy Randwick-Petersham attack, before being trapped plumb in front [an old problem].
On the second day of the game, Pup apparently made a quick 30 in a few overs to the delight of the massive crowd.
The outcome of the match eluded me.
No idea what the strength of Sydney grade bowling, or batting for that matter, is like in this day and age, but you'd guess that that's where they'd still pick the Sheffield Shield players from.
Early on in his non-illustrious career, clearly remember the most dour, dullest, boring opening batsman ever to play for NSW, Greg Mail, known to his mates as as "Snail" or "Junk", being asked what his ambition and most fabulous achievement in the game would be.
He replied "to play ten years of first-class cricket".
That's setting the bar high, and, goddam it, he almost achieved it.
Nine years...fell just one year short, with the final hurdle in clear view.
The quintessential journeyman.
Happy that he walked away with a first class average of 32.16.
Who or what conviced Pup that he could be anything but a journeyman at this late stage is anyone's guess.
And it's not exactly as if he's fallen on hard times.
Didn't hear a thing Pup said on interview during the brief clip that was played on the television news, being distracted by a large group of bearded men wearing turbans surrounding him, and beaming at the camera.
Who knew that Clarkey was so popular and the subject of so much adoration in the Sikh community?
The fishwraps keep saying he's got a "T20 focus"
Perhaps that's where his future lies -- the IPL?
But you won't find much of the camaraderie you crave there, mate; the bitchiest, cattiest dressing rooms in world cricket, but all reports.
These dudes aint playing for peanuts, they're playing for sheep stations.
Among the spurious "contract offers" being mentioned in the press are a two month gig with Middlesex to play county cricket [two months? that's five minutes in county terms], and a Sydney Sixers offer for the '16/'17 Big Bash season, even though their playing roster is chock full, nay bursting, with blokes who can actually play T20, and make no bones about the fact that they do it for a comfortable living.
Being on the bench for a T20 side aint no place to play.
And there's no captaincy and no test cricket on offer, and for a good reason.
Once you've been to the very pinnacle, and you give the game away, it's a very very very long way down, and what's more, you go out the backdoor without so much as a sausage.
Michael, of all people, you should know that cricket is a cruel game.
Perhaps the saddest event of recent weeks has been the cancellation [no sorry, indefinite postponement] of "The Legends of the SCG Gala Dinner", at which RN Harvey and MJ Clarke were to be the star turns, at anywhere between $200 and $1000 a seat, depending on how close you were to the Legends table.
No explanation was given by the promoter, and no mention was made of the probability that ticket sales might have been a bit on the slowish side.
Oh, Pup.
Help me, Jesus.
How did it come to this?

caught between a rock and a hard place

Fellow Older Folk,

Whatever you think of MJ Clarke you'd have to feel sorry for the bloke, at the minute.
It's more, much more, than making a bad call or pulling the wrong rein.
And to make matter worse, just "missing it" doesn't cut the mustard.
When Pup was making his lap of honour in an open top car around the SCG during the one-day dead-rubber against India as the most prominent retired NSW player of last year, somehow managed to convince myself that he was holding a small white dog.
Makes sense. Nice touch. Pup goes out with a Pup! Marketers dream.
But alas, no...the Good Lady Wife accused me of hallucinating - again.
Then it dawned on me that the thing wasn't moving [you know puppies, mad as hatters, run and jump all over the shop; uncontrolable], then found out later it was in fact his wee bairn.
The baby daughter dressed in her swadling clothes and wrapped in a fluffy white blanket.
As Michael was making half-hearted attempts to do the Royal Wave in acknowledgement of the non-accolades he was receiving from the crowd [didn't see no standing ovation] and no doubt thinking to himself "why am I here? saying goodbye, when I don't want to say goodbye?" he looked the very picture of forlorn sadness.
All my blog posts since Clarkey's ignominious retirement from the game after captaining Australia to a catastrophic loss in the miserable Ashes series against the Evil Poms away have been mainly to do with what is Michael going to do with himself in the afterlife - post cricket?
It's not as if he hasn't tried hard.
Just didn't have the stomach to be an ocean racing yachtsman [too much chundering even on a boat that was going nowhere], and his failed bomb as a television cricket commenator, where he just didn't fit the Channel Nine cookie-cutter mould and loomed as a ratings killer.
What next?
You can only change nappies for so long, as the Wife happily goes about her business of selling her post-partem excercise and diet regimes to the women's magazines for a tidy sum.
Early on, fatherhood is not all that it's cracked up to be - just ask me - but it does get better Pup, you can be assured.
Still, at the moment, perhaps he's not getting the right kind of joy he was expecting from the new baby.
So what does he do?
Signs a three month contract with the Western Suburbs Cricket Club, where he grew up and was identified early on as a big fish keeper.
Problem is Pup, it's easy to forget about the selectors when you were getting picked all the time.
You, of all people, after being dropped numerous times in your early test career, should know about the vagaries of the Chairman and the faceless three wise men.
No idea how Wests are going on the ladder, but what if they are doing well and threatening to make the Grand Final?
The selectors might be loathe to change the first grade line up to accomodate a retired grandee at the expense of some honest toiler who richly deserves a premiership, and decide to pick MJ Clarke at No.3 in the seconds.
What happens then?
The long and the short of it is, Pup's test career is over [WG Grace played test cricket until he was 50, but MJ aint no WG], he hasn't played a T20 game at any level since 2010 [you have to remember he gave up the captaincy of the T20 side in favour of George Bailey, and then quit T20 altogether - because - let's face it, he was crap at it], he's too old and crippled to play more than a couple of seasons in Sheffield Shield cricket at best [he said in his on-the run press interview "if NSW want to talk to me I'd be happy to listen", he wouldn't play for any other state, and he doesn't want or need County Cricket [where much older, but fitter, men have plyed a good trade for many years].
Isn't that it?
He'd better take down his little history book from the shelf, dust it off, and have another look - just to remind himself that so many sportsmen in so many different codes down the years have retired at the height of their powers, only to make fools of themselves in their unexpected comebacks.
Sure, he "misses the camaraderie", who wouldn't?
The five star hotels around the world, the fabulous money, every whim and desire fully catered for, tremendous big knees-ups, plus you can have any girl you want for free.
What's not to like about that?
The Gravy Train is a very very fine place to be, don't you worry about that.
But you'd expect he'd easily tire of playing in front of the ground staff and the Man and his Dog at suburban ovals, only to have his scores printed on the sixth inside back page of the papers in very small type.
Dear oh dear oh deary me.
The poor poor bloke is well and truly caught between a rock and a hard place.
It's enough to shit a man to tears.

a jolly jape

Media Megastars,

It's fairly obvious that The Great MJ Clarke's career as television cricket commentator is not working so well.
Although he has a cricket brain the size of a watermelon, and is a first-rate analyst of the game, he doesn't really fit with the commercial television modus operandi, let alone the Channel Nine mould.
He just can't do: "GOT 'IM THIS TIME!!!".
But with Bill Lawry as the undisputed master of it for eons, you'd be forgiven for saying to yourself, why try harder?.
And whoever dreamt it up in Nine's A&R Department should be shown and told something that has completely baffled me for years - Michael Clarke is just not popular with the Strayan public.
Never has been, never will be.
Where's the ratings in that?
Pup would be much better suited as an "expert commentator" on the radio, but even his high-pitched, almost jockey-like voice, would count against him there.
And in any case the ABC only pays five pounds, five shillings, and sixpence a game for 'talent', and if anyone knows that two bob just aint worth two bob anymore, it'd be Pup.
[Aside: A little birdie is singing that Dave "From The Suburbs" Warner has bought himself a Lamborghini - new or used not disclosed - a wise and sensible choice, as he'd look a right nong in a Ferrari with the lid down].
Managed to catch Clarkey's 'masterclass' at lunch on Day Five on "How To Bat Proper", which was excellent.
Perhaps he should do a Bradman, and put out a book with lots of pictures in it, and with a retro twist, give it the same title as the Don's great epic "Look At Me! Learn How To Bat Like Me!"
Or maybe Pup should try building schools in poor villages in Bangladesh and/or become the CEO of Lords - where he could put a new broom through the hide-bound joint, like constructing a block of super-luxury 7-star apartments on top of the Long Room.
He could also order the Secretary of the MCC to commission and erect the long-awaited and anticipated bronze bust of Glenn McGrath near the Grace Gates, forthwith.
The irony of the fact that it hasn't appeared to have rained in Sydney for months, and then absolutely pisses down during the test match, was not lost on the local aficiandos.
The Stats Guru discovered that Day Three was the first time in 20 years that a day had been abandoned without a ball being bowled at the SCG due to the weather, but he's still scrabbling around to find an instance of two days in a row being completely washed out.
Heard along the grapevine that Pup and Hadds - as the long-term retiring NSW first-class players from last year - were due to do a lap of honour in an open topped vintage Rolls Royce at tea on Day One, but forgot to bring their raincoats, so happily postponed the accolades to the break in the first one-day game against India at the ground next week.
The bits about 'the Roller' and the 'raincoats' are probably hastily cobbled together scurrilous rumours; Michael would never be that weak or wussy, lets face it, he's just come from chundering off the back of a boat in heavy seas, soaked to the skin.
Of course they should have called the game a draw at the end of Day Four, and then put on some kind of silly 40/40 game just for a jolly jape; to amuse the pitiable folk who'd had the dreadful misfortune to shell a small fortune for a five day pass.
But no, it was against the rules.
Of course they got the obligatory DFTS Warner 1st innings ton, not hard against crap and disinterested bowling, and there was no purpose in it except to boost his average, and the poor punter ends up getting a forlon tame draw.
The Australian 1st innings batting order shows that Tokes was out the back having a nice choof on his hash pipe, and the Baby Faced Killer was well onto the gin & tonics by lunchtime on the Day Five.
Neither were called up to bat under any circumstances.
Suppose everyone involved could have tried harder to make something of it, declarations at 0/0, that sort of thing, instead of trying to shift the blame to the weather gods [or as, heard for the first time ever this week, the "Godzilla El Niño"].
You might as well say the Christmas Child is responsible for global warming.
So, as at 7 Jan '16, that's it for Test cricket at home; all over, red rover.
Their next match is at the Basin Reserve in Windy Wellington from February 12.
Watch the forecast.

a pup on a dog of a boat

Amatuer Sailors,

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

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

on "the pink stink"

Aghastees,

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

only three nags can win the Melbourne Cup

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

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

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

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

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


Enjoy!

doctored pitches & hopeless selectors

Aghastee's,

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