the full range of filth

Eternal Pessimists,

The numbers are in and the reviews are out.
It must be desperately disappointing for poor poor Pup to find that just about the only way he can get his name and photo in the papers these days, is to appear in public with his wife, Kyly, at say, a book launch at some poncey pub in Paddington.
How did it come to this?
Didn't help that the fishwraps implied mid-week that MJ Clarke "didn't have that personal side" when he was Australian Captain, citing a crude quote from Glenn Maxwell:
"It makes it a lot more easier to act like an adult if youse get treated like one."
The papers, yet again, just taking malicious pot shots at perhaps the greatest batsman of his generation for no particular reason, and with no pretence at all to it being in the public interest.
Plain rude, for mine.
Perhaps Pup should consider becoming a recluse?
Must be awfully devasating for a first time author, like Mrs MJ Clarke, to have her book met with almost universal scathing reviews from the critics.
Some random quotes:
"True to You does not endorse ramming cars in your local shopping centre car park screaming "Towanda", instead Clarke suggests a more serene outlook: 'You can either be happy or right: you choose.'"
"three things I learnt from reading True to You: 1. The downward facing dog is better for you that an actual puppy. 2. Comedy is dead. 3. Christmas will be affordable this year."
"it's really a homage to Kathy Bates' fragile character from Fried Green Tomatoes."
The StatsGurgu has noticed True to You hasn't made the Top Ten Bestseller's list, and it's not even among the most popular "lifestyle" books currently in the shops.
In other words, the lavishly produced minature coffee table number hasn't exactly rocketed to the top of the charts, even at a very competitive price in a crowded market; but that would be a bit harsh as there must be some value in it.
PanMacMillian wouldn't be thinking "surely we haven't backed another dud here?", or would they?
Still, the Cosmic Couple would seem to have a fair bit to fall back on, with Michael Clarked named as the 14th Richest Cricketer in The World during the week with a net wealth of $US16M - no surprise really - but the baby will start eating her way through that.
Of course, Sachin Tendulkar streets them all by the length of the stratosphere to take top spot with elegant ease, but Ricky Ponting's fortune, give or take a sheep station or two, valued at $US65M??
There couldn't be that sort of money in racing greyhounds, surely?
That's unless they've considerably upped the prizemoney purses and the value of brown paper bags at the dogs while no one was looking.
Or maybe Punter just had his Swiss bank account under the supervision of Mossack-Fonseca as a hobby?
No names, no pack drill.

You never mind your football team being beaten fair and square, but when they are fucked over by a mob of filthy bastard no-talents, now that really riles.
Excuse my French, but the Newcastle Knights have to be the lowest of low dog teams in the league comp, and to be robbed by two points by a rabble that had not hitherto won a game all season, that just stinks like a well formed turd.
First, Tigers playmaker A Boy Named Sue goes off after ten minutes after copping a deliberate hit to the head without being in possesion of the ball, and never returns, under the concussion rule and the referee's turn a blind eye.
There is one particularly nasty individual on the Newcastle team - don't know his name - but I know what he looks like - ugly.
He was responsible for leading a five man tackle on the best prop forward in New South Wales, Aaron Woods, with the sole aim of wrestling him down awarkwardly to injure him, and sure enough, Woodsey does his ankle a mischief and will be in Sick Bay 4-6 weeks.
How low can you go, you limbo stickers?
Newcastle employed the full range of filth - squirrel grips, Christmas holds, clothesline tackles, The Cruncher, even the good ol' "chicken wing" tackle - all with apparent immunity from the authorities - no wonder there were more than a few stinks.
Then there's the sheer breathtaking audacity of Newcastle - on finding a random second ball on the ground - to kick it into their own offensive play in a bid to confuse the Balmain defenders with two balls apparently both in play.
The Bamford never blew his whistle.
What kind of cute act is that?
Luckily the hastily-cobbled-together scam didn't pay off in the end - the Tigers were wise to it - otherwise there would have been full-on rioting along the Balmain Road.
Newcastle have no regard whatsoever for the time-honoured un-written Rules of Conduct and Code of Ethics.
They resort to gratutious violence and banned underhand tactics in a vain attempt to cover up their complete and total on-field inadequacy.
It used to be said that Rugby League was "a thug's game, played be gentlemen", while Rugby Union was "a gentleman's game, played by thugs".
Maybe Newcastle should seriously consider switching codes, or just taking their ball home in a fit of pique, never to return.
No idea what the penalty count was against the Tigers, but the thieving Bamfords would no doubt have collected fat wads of pineapples from the Newcastle rooms after the game.
The whole damnable thing just shat me to tears.

Don't get me started on the Swans losing to Adelaide in a show-stopping cliff-hanger. .
Please, just don't.
No one was watching anyway.

wot wig?

Coiffeur,

While surfing "the 57 channels and there's nothin' on", had the misfortune to come across Pup's hair at half time in a T20 "Who Cares" World Cup game while he was in the Sydney analysis studio with Tubby.
The Channel Nine make up dept. have either gone completely mad, or he's been to Kevin Naiqama's barber, or dead set, it's a wig.
A kind of swept up arrangement to a top knot pigeon style, while looking like he had a small breaking wave perched on top if his head.
Cannot begin to describe the colour of it.
If you asked MJ Clarke to drop his dacks and let you check out his pubes, it's a certainty that it's not that colour, that's of course, unless he wears a merkin.
Pup strikes me as the merkin kind of guy.
Wasn't paying much attention to what he was being said, flabbergastered as you'd be with what was on display on the Crystal Bucket, but thinking Clarkey said Straya could win this one, but Pakitsan would probably win.
Straya won by ten runs.
Knows alot about T20, by all reports.
As the poor kid tries in apparent vain to find his post-retirement niche, his wife, [probs just calls her Kyly, or maybe Kiles Baby] has written a book.
Not mucking about or kidding you here - it is absolutely true.
After displaying her perfectly match-fit body just months after having a baby in The Magazines, Mrs MJ Clarke has written a b-o-o-k!
It's called True to You, and it's a collation of old sayings and mantra's about holistic living, how to make today the very best day you've ever lived in yr whole life, and welcome trips on living completely, and wholefood enema's and so on.
A mint condition 1st edition from Pan MacMillan is a genuine steal at just $24.95 rrp.
You can imagine the scene at Pan MacMillan's Editorial Board meeting when Pup comes in pitching the concept of a perfectly ghost-written autobiography, yes, about him, and them saying, ' oh,man, Pup, Clarkey, man, we've already ghostwritten three Captain's Diary's that, like, bombed for you and us, I mean man, this is tough to say, but jesus man, just forget about the autobiography, eh? Won't sell. But, maaate, if you could get your missus, mate, to put together some sort of lifestyle book, that would be a different story altogether".

Been reminded that about ten months ago, there was an ugly rumour going 'round that the football part of this blog fell apart at the seams - seemingly forever - but that's bullshit.
Haven't got the time to waste no more on week to week reporting, that's finished; but you can't stop the old professional sports journalist in me from telling it like it is, and speaking the truth.
So please forgive me.

The Swans start the season by giving Collinwood a million goal hiding as well as doing 25 behinds with a rattan cane.
South Melbourne plenty. The Wood's? Bugger all.
This, the day after 11 Collingwood players - a cricket team - were busted by the strand-of-a-single-head-hair test for taking "illicit substances" during the off season.
That's AFL Secret Code for "party drugs", and it seems the Magpies were having a mighty time over the summer.
Why not, when you can have a couple of brekky cones, just a touch of ice with yr beers over a long lunch, and then stuff cocaine up yr nose, arse, any ol' orifice will do, until the cows come home, while sipping on potent alcohol laced concotions?
What's not to like?
Problem is, when Easter comes, and you have to put all that away -- 'cos now it's business time -- is it any wonder you'd play like goastshit?
My Spy at The Ground and me always dream up new knicknames for first year players.
Papley brings Paspaley to mind, so he has to be "Pearl", Mills is simple. Just gotta be "Saw". But poor Hewitt by no fault of his own, as he probably would't know or be related to Lleyton - the biggest spoilt brat in world sport during the naughties - but unfortunately bears the same surname; so Hewitt's nickname would have to be "Pest".
All three youngsters can play, some better than others.
Then at the other end of the scale is Buddy.
At least he's learnt how to properly show his humanity on field - going from the unbridled joy at kicking a spectacular first goal of the season, to being the very picture of a man in a world of swirling pain, after getting a good knock to the shoulder.
Will be worth his contract money this year if he stays on the park and kicks them all the way to the Grand Final - and wins it for them - no pressure; honest, really.
Then Sydney give Carlton a good and proper ten goal lesson.
Mmm...bright start, to be sure.
The rugby league season was well under way by the time the AFL got around to it.
The Tigers won the first two games defying all the pundits who thought they were def wooden spooners, and then had the next three thieved off them - robbed blind by the Bamdord's.
On paper they look good.
Very good halves and five-eigths - the local kiddie Mitch Moses will turn into a superstar backliner in time, for mine.
A world class full-back in Tedesco.
Handy centres.
Solid pack.
And brick shithouses running both wings - fast.
They can even afford to "hide" Chris "The Try Scoring Freak" Lawrence in the second row, where he is starting to find a new spark in his football career, when everyone except the loyalist fan thought he was all washed up in the centres at the age of 27.
And The Best Leb in the Game is just back from pre-season injury.
It's a team that can score tries, kick well, and and can cement the brick wall in defence when necessary; its a very sinple game, that's all you need.
Or you could rue the last two seasons ruined by injury.
Coach Squeak Taylor has saved his own skin by giving them a Licence to Thrill, and yet the "Entertainers" don't make it to live free-to-air television until round six.
Go figure.

worrying about things that never happen

Speculators,

What ever happened to the good ol' days?
Like when the cricket went right through to the end of March [well, thanking the Good Lord Joisus, first class cricket still does] and the football season always started on the Anzac Day long weekend?
Now you don't even have time to fart between seasons.
Barely a day or two into Autumn and the NRL season starts this weekend, while the AFL have waited for a very early Easter.
Little wonder rugby league players in particular complain of being overworked: an impossibly long season - the Grand Final is the first Sunday in October (!) - an inappropriate bye system that suits no-one, and five mid-week representative games scheduled for bang smack in the middle of the season. [A problem the AFL doesn't have, with the demise of the BIG V a long time ago now].
As a result, by mid-season, half the players are wounded and in the Sick Bay for extended stays.
Sensible arrangements of yore done away with with the stroke of a pen for no good reason [except to make more money for the rich].
Was horrified that even though there were only three games scheduled there this year, and Swans announced they were abandoning Stadium Australia [aka ANZ Stadium aka the Olympic Stadium aka Cathy Freeman Stadium] for good, and will be playing all their home games at the SCG.
Why leave an obviously winning ground?
The Stats Guru pointed out they are way in front in the win/loss ratio at the ground [32/22], especially in finals, where the Swans have won eight and lost two.
At least he says there's some welcome good news - Barry Hall's all time record for most goals kicked at the ground [87] will now live on in infamy, forever.
It's because the club has "listened to the fans", apparently.
The fans, who of course are very strange Eastern Suburbs types who can afford with ease the most expensive seats, have told the club "anyone who lives west of Paddington can go fuck themselves, and isn't there some club called the Pygmies out there somewhere in Sydney's armpit, for them, anyway?
It's difficult to park your Lamborghini or Maserati in the Olympic precinct, when, if you have the right cash, you can park more or less right outside the front gate at the SCG.
What riles me most is that no consideration whatsoever was given to the disabled punter, like me, who would just love to pop along to a few games a season.
Cathy Freeman Stadium is as perfect as the day it was built - what other ground in the world can you walk or hobble around the entire circumference of, both inside and out, without encountering a single step?
The place is bristling with lifts, and any seat in the ground is a short flight of stairs up or down from there, bars along every second or third aisle, and with the supermarket-style check out, the beer queues are never long even in a packed ground...and the booze is actually cold...you need to slip the gloves on to hold the cup on a mid-winter's day sometimes.
Joisus! When the children were young, you could even easily steal pies and stuff your overcoat pockets with them and no-one was any the wiser, until they, sadly, did the sums one day, and closed that loophole.
One of the few places where everything was thought of from the off to stand the test of time - it still looks brand new after 16 years - with every kind of consideration putting the customer at front and centre.
In stark contrast, the SCG is a higgeldy-piggeldy shit-hole of a place for the crippled.
Trip hazards eveywhere you look, mighty treks to your seat, and you'd be lucky to find a bar for some of that refreshing Lukewarm Stadium Beer, let alone one that isn't overcrowded.
In the Brewongle Stand, there is but one lift - the service lift.
Clearly remember the year after Supercoach Roos retired from coaching the Swans, being in the service lift one day on my stick, with a bloke in a wheelchair, and a charming young sub-continental chap carring a tray of canapes, when Roosey walks in.
Paul obviously had no idea where he was sitting and was struggling with the lift buttons.
Poking at them and speaking to no-one in particular...he said "level 7, mmm. Club SCG, eh? Mmmm. What exactly is Club SCG? Is that, like, The Members?"
To which the Indian gentleman head-bobbled and said "oh, no sir! The Members is over there, sir. Club SCG is much better than The Members".
This, from a bloke who'd coached the club for the best part of a decade, and had no idea where anything was in the stands.
"Spiritual Home", my arse.
You have to play at a ground for 60+ years before it becomes yr spiritual home.
The previously derelict and now turned into a suburban soccer ground, Lakeside Oval at Albert Park, is the Swan's aka South Melbourne's Spiritual Home.
They played there for more than a century.
How easily people forget.
And as my poor poor friend, the Country Member, with a season ticket, remarked, for the first time this year, the previously free public transport from Central Railway to the SCG is no longer included in the price of the ticket.
Sidelined and ripped off, once again.
At least the Swans, with Buddy back from the ward and firing, and the team chock full of talented yoof and experience, with a little faith, hope, and [goddamit] charity they might even have half a chance of winning the Premership.
You can imagine my mortification on opening the 40 page (!) magazine previewing the rugby league season that fell out of the Saturday Daily Terror to find that not one of the 18 so-called "experts" had tipped the Mighty Balmain Tigers to make the Top 8, and three of them had tipped the Tiges to take the Wooden Spoon.
They better not go that bad or they will, again, be a very hard team to follow.
But in the cold light of day, Balmain has no viable leagues club [er, actually, no leagues club at all] so no viable means of support and no money to fund player recruitment which is where the on-field power lies in this caper, a dysfunctional board, a poisonous relationship beween Coach Squeak Taylor and the Best Leb In The Game, who'd rather deck each other than look at each other, let alone speak, [you won't win that one Squeak] and they carry a huge South Sea Islander winger who's built like a brick shithouse and can run like a bat out of hell, but goes to the worst barber shop in all of Sydney; they may well be right, and they could go that bad.
But it's all "coulds", "mights", "ifs" and "buts".
The fortunes of football teams at the start of the season is mere speculation at best, most often scurrilous, and more often just plain wrong.
Joy, despair, unfettered delight and abject disappointment come later.
So, as The Philosopher would say, why do what most people do, and spend most of your life worrying about things that never happen?

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.