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.