fruit for the sideboard

Canine fanciers,

The Knight in Shining Armour on an impressive white steed appears on the ground with Straya at 3/37, and dismounts.
Oh, the Majesty!
The Imperious cover driving, the Right Royal square cutting, the Imperial straight hits, the Celestial leg side play...and it just seemed to go on and on and on, for day after day after day...that's perhaps because it did.
When Pup scored his hundred, found myself in the front bar of the Clovelly Hotel, ready to have a lash at the lunch menu with me ol' mate the Twisted Darkie as the Tasman Sea was over my shoulder a shimmering and a sparkling in the heat.
It was good of the bloke to work his way out of the nineties just in time so all could relax for a chow down as the sun was tempered by the sea breeze starting to kick in.
Never mind Punter on 97.
By the time he got to 200, noticed myself being gripped by a state of delirium somewhere in La La Land, but with the aid of some powerful pharmaceuticals had recovered enough by the time he made 250 to be enjoying a cheeky highball on the terrace of the Customs House Bar at Circular Quay, as if nothing had happened, with the dust and grime swirling about as a classic Sydney southerly buster swept through, like an exclamation mark on an extraordinary day.
A Fleet Foxes concert at the Opera Hoos in the company of the GLW proved to be a welcome distraction from the tumultuous events, and it all ended as a rather late night.
All of these places are within a few kilometres of the cricket ground, so kept kicking myself that of all days to be at the game, this was the one, the only one.
But.
Missed it.
Bad timing.
Pulled the wrong rein.
[Well aware that this is a Drunkard's Excuse, but there were more than a few disincentives to attend the ground; the intolerable temperature for a day in full sun in the "hot seats", the outrageous ticket prices, the exorbitant fee for the execrable light beer only and offal pies, Pup could have been out first ball on Day Two for all anyone knew, and the joint is crawling with fun police hell bent on ruining your day, et al, blah blah blah...]
If you had had a crystal ball and could have predicted how the day would pan out, you would have gladly paid the money and put up with the pain and suffering to see a slice of history in the making.
But not me.
Couldn't find mine - pretty sure there is a crystal ball somewhere down there in Dad's Shed - so it'll just go down as one of those, oh well, "much to my chagrin" days.
There've been a few.
On Day Three, awoke just in time to grogily switch on the digital radio as Pup and Mr Cricket began setting about grinding out some genuine test cricket, just nudging the ball here and there for one's and two's and incessantly running up and down, up and down, up and down between the wickets, with the Captain's eyes only occasionally lighting up at the sight of a bad ball - he duly smacked the rubbish to the boundary where it belongs - so, it seemed the only sensible place to be, on getting the act together, was in the Front Bar at The Local.
Walked in and straight away ran into The Philospher in a rare standing position as he breasted the bar to ask the barkeep for another dose of this week's favoured tipple - a Bacardi and soda with a twist of lemon - you'd have to agree, a refreshing drink on a warm summer's day.
Mainly a football fan [as you know, he takes a keen, but generally silent interest in the aussie rules and the rugby league], The Philospher shakes his head and gives a grudging nod of respect to cricket, largely due to its devilishly clever inexblicabilty and the inabilty of the players to hide their true humanity during six hours in the field - but he's certainly no ardent follower of the game.
He glanced at me sideways and put a bamboo umbrella in his glass and said "well, Craves, looks like your bloke has done alright", before resuming his seat in his usual corner.
The Usual Suspects and the Brown Bros were more boisterous than they would usually be just after one o'clock of a Thursday afternoon, and there was already clear evidence of the piss talking.
Needless to say, the Front Bar went ape shit when Pup scored 300, even the Asian punters in the TAB bar down there through the looking glass, were giving the lone telly with the cricket on it a standing ovation - as some random at the bar commented - at risk of having their citizenship revoked if they didn't.
Thinking it was more spontaneous than that.
By the look of the cables and telegraphs that came in soon after the event, it appears the vast majority of people in this metropolis who have not the slightest interest in the caper were still looking out of the corner of their eye at the outcome, fully aware that MJ Clarke was the talk of the town.
It was as if the whole city was cheering when it was all said and done, while having a collective oomph.
In a clear act of unanimity,The Maori boys purchased three jugs of draught with the small change out of their pockets, and perched them on the bar for anyone to have a drink out of.
It was a touching scene, that was deserving of high-fives.
When things settled down, and Pup continued to plough on, there was some discussion about the fact that he did it all with a nude bat.
Some wag said "I can see someone yelling down the phone in the bat maker's marketing department right now, screaming 'What were you thinking?! I don't care if he wants a head job at every drinks break. Just make it happen!!'".
Marketing blunder of the century.
Got to thinking that KD Walters has been out to lunch for his entire life, and still continues to this day to dine out, on the back of his 242 at the SCG.
Given the small matter of the 329 not out, Uncle Doug will now probably have to have a slight tinker with his well-worn endlessly-rehearsed after dinner patter.
Did like the hand painted banner that appeared at the ground on Day Three that simply read WHO WOULD HAVE THOUGHT?
Summed up the miracle perfectly.
As if the Skipper hadn't single-handedly won the match by a country mile, and then some, wasn't enough, the fact that MJ Clarke managed to deceive the Little Master on what turned out to be the last day of the match with one of his funny left-arm dibbly-dobblers and was entered in the scorebook at SR Tendulkar c.Hussey b.Clarke 80, was just fruit for the sideboard.
We'll be very lucky to see or hear of anything quite like it again in our lifetimes.