a hundred in Wellington and all that

Pot-Bellied Piss-Suckers,

Found myself in The Front Bar at The Local a little earlier than usual for a Friday afternoon after word had filtered through on the bush telegraph that MJ Clarke was in in Wellington.
There was no one there, apart from The Philospher in The Corner who, as is his wont, said nothing, as he sipped his favoured drink of the day, this time a brandy & dry.
Pup was watching his off stump very closely and letting a lot of rubbish go while jamming down on the odd ball that may or may not have got him out LBW early.
Not hard to pick which ones to hit.
Soon enough, a few Big Bloody Brown Brothers, who know their cricket let me tell you, began filtering in from the myriad building and construction sites in the district in their flouro vests and work boots and gaiters.
One commented when Pup had totted up 17 runs in 90 minutes "jeeze, he's going cautious, isn't he, eh bru? But I spoose you'd expict that from someone who's just lost his handbag. Spoose he would have cancelled his credit cards, eh bru?"
Conversation then drifted to the latest model Aston Martin, what's going on this week Up The Cross, and the general ugliness that is The Shire.
No one confessed to knowing anything at all about what's happening in Bondi.
The Philospher remained silent.
After Pup had begun to loosen up the shoulders, wriggle his fingers into his gloves, and fidget constantly and endlessly, and began to smote the ball as if it was some kind of football or something else entirely that was there on purpose for him to take out his frustrations on and posted his fifty, the bar rapidly filled up.
The Brown Brothers lamented long and loud about the pop gun nature of the New Zealand attack, as Pup began to stretch out the Rudolf Nureyev footwork with some trade-mark off cuts.
Ping! At the boundary inside five seconds as the fielder flailed a bit and gave it up.
A few lovely cover drives, as usual.
There's no one else in the modern game who can find the meat of the bat so sweetly as MJ Clarke, NSW, when he's got the time to concentrate on locating it, in a test match.
And then of course, his deft leg side play for one's and two's left the Brown Brothers seriously questioning Vettori's captaincy capacity in the field.
"he might be a nice guy in spuctacools, but......"
Still, The Philospher said nothing.
The Publican could see what was going on out of the corner of his eye, and brought on the happy hour for jugs of Carlton Draught half an hour early.
Bless.
Suddenly, dozens of middies were being poured all round.
There was a slight heart flutter when Pup fished at one way above his, and the keeper's, head before it sailed away to the long stop boundary, but it was by then clear that Pup wasn't hanging around until tomorrow to post his century.
The Deputy Dawg did a good impression of trying to run out the Concept of North, who was spreadeagled at the other end of the pitch, as the main man went through for the single to bring up the three figures.
After the ripple of applause around The Front Bar had faded, the Philosopher got up from his chair and said:
"Good knock, that. Best since Bangalore", before he breasted the bar and ordered a double.