deep behind enemy lines

Board Riders,

Found myself last Friday deep behind enemy lines.
Invited, by sheer coincidence, to a late afternoon wedding on Collaroy Beach, of all places, with reception following at the Harbord Diggers Club.
Diggers is about as close as you can possibly get to being front and centre in the Manly-Warringah district.
The heart of enemy territory.
My, how the Diggers has changed since my last visit nigh on 20 years ago.
It's gone from a simple two storey red-brick clubhouse, to an RSL on steroids, with millions of pokies spead out over the multi-storeyed mega-plex with an impressive amount of floor space.
Harbord Diggers used to be rightly famous for it's magnificent views of Freshwater and Curl Curl beaches, perched as it is right out on the Queenscliffe headland.
But even as the club has got significantly higher, much of the old view has been built out by rich bastards.
Par for the course in that part of the world.
In another sheer coincidence the reception was held in the Duke Kahanamoku Room, who's name was invoked the following day when Freshwater [the surf was pumping by the way - local denizens were saying in hushed tones "best in years"] was officially named as only the third World Surfing Reserve, after Malibu, California and some joint in Portugal.
Even more coincidental, the next day the 'featured picture' on the Wikepdia main page was of the very boat we had travelled on from Circular Quay, the Manly ferry MV Collaroy.
Sitting down to write this blog post, started to become convinced that some kind of conspiracy was going on.
The only strange thing that didn't fit, was that the game was being played in Gosford.
The lone Tiger's supporter in the full kit in the main bar [which sports the largest television screen known to man] stood out like tits on a bull, needless to say.
Seeing a fellow shag on a rock, showed him my 2012 Membership badge on the key ring, and instantly regretted my mistake, as his eyes lit up.
The bloke just stopped short of telling me his life story.
Claimed he was on first name terms with several of the Manly players, not to mention the entire Stewart family, that he'd lived in the Manly area for most of his life [he was about my age], always drank at the Diggers and identified himself as a local, but he'd been born a Balmain supporter, and said with finality "so, that's that, isn't it?"
There is no chance whatsoever of switching allegiances in Tribal Sydney.
You are either born to or you marry into a football team; out-of-towners who breeze in and then stay on for more than 30 years are still considered fly-by-nighters, who can suit themselves.
One of the wedding guests, Jim the Macedonian [a crazy mad St George fan who, like many if not all, hates Manly, who said on his 6th birthday he felt like a king when he was given the full Dragons supporters kit] was also with me as we watched most of the second half.
So there we we're, the three of us, rooting for a lost cause.
It wasn't pretty to look at.
Never mind the two Tigers' tries at the denoument to make it a close game, which was widely trumpeted in the fishwraps as a "tremendous Tigers comeback", when it was nothing of the sort.
You have to wonder if the newspaper articles are being written by the Balmain Public Relations Officer.
After letting go of an 8-2 half-time lead in the blink of an eye shortly after the break, they were always playing catch-up football, which in this code, is very hard to do.
They were fitter than the home side in the finish, but the scoreboard pressure proved too much.
As soon as That Pom Ellis went off early in the second half with a corked thigh, not to return, the forward structure, as Jim put it, "went to shit".
At least there was some consolation with a free drink, or three, in the Duke's room, even though drowning one's sorrows is not generally permitted and is usually frowned upon this early in the year.
SC Sheens was not much concerned with the loss, commenting that after Gareth went down the race "we made a couple of mistakes and all of a sudden we were in quicksand trying to get ourselves out" - he's much more concerned with the very early season injury toll, with his first pick full back gorn for the year, important players like Galloway and Utai out for a month each, and how That Pom goes mid-week is anyone's guess.
You'd have to hope the Balmain roster is deep in replacements for the fallen with the current attrition rate the way it is.
Next Friday night, the lads take on St George at their Spiritual Home, Jubliee Oval, Kogarah.
Jim the Macedonian will be there front and centre.
He won't be a very happy camper after his team was right thrashed over the weekend.
And so it goes.

MANLY-WARRINGAH SEA EAGLES 22. Tries: King, Cherry-Evans, Williams. Goals: Lyon (5).
WESTS TIGERS 18. Tries: Blair, Ryan, Reddy. Goals: Marshall (3)
At Central Coast Football Stadium, Gosford.
Crowd: 17,532.

the football gods were smiling

General Admissioners,

We ambled down to the ground from the Orange Grove Hotel singing the ditty...
"And the afternoon was sunny,
The weather it was fine,
We all went down the Oval,
To watch them Sharks go down."
After five days of solid rain in Sydney, match day dawned as a sunny, rather warm day - to the point where there was a one minute drinks break mid-way through each half and half time was lengthened by five minutes.
Even so, the players were completely buggered as they went to extra time, and were cramping up all over the field.
The playing surface held up remarkabley well, even though it appeared some eejit groundsman had spread some heavy duty fertiliser that had killed the grass in regular narrow strips across the ground.
We got to the Spritual Home 40 minutes before kick off, and the ground was already as full as a boot with all the front row standing room only spots on the terrace under the Norman "Latchem" Robinson Stand that we favour already taken.
Managed to find a couple of short people to peer over the heads of, for a panoramic look at the best rugby league viewing ground in the world.
The Tigers marketing department had done a sensational job in selling the game, spreading a rumour that the only way to be guaranteed to get in was to become a Member, and then selling one match Memberships to the season opener at the hugely inflated price of $60, [we paid $25 a head per game for the four-match Leichhardt Oval package] to artificially bolster the Membership numbers and clear a warehouse full of merch.
Brilliant.
The Club Secretary even said that future games at Leichhardt might become Members only affairs, given the rate of sales - the press asked what opposition supporters were supposed to do - to which he replied "well, they can watch it on the telly, can't they?"
In the end they finished up with 1500 walk up tickets, but the attendence was right on the nominal capacity of 20,000, so a few Sharks fans had managed to sneak in.
One of whom we could have done without, as he refused to behave in a quiet and sociable way, being loud and obnoxious as he was.
So, the sooner they shut the gates and keep the riff raff out, the better, for mine
The usual suspects were in.
The good ol' boys from ZZ Top in their full kit of 1970's heirloom Western Suburbs Magpies gear whose beards just seem to grow longer and their tattoos appear to become more numerous as the years go on, were at the bar.
The Wailing Woman, the one who screams maniacally without respite from the opening kick off to the final hooter could be heard, but not seen from our vantage point.
A magnificent spastic, who's only occasionally seen at the ground - he only comes to the big games - was standing near us.
He has an imposing stature of well over six foot and suffers from some kind of St Vitus Dance; with his hands and feet constantly on the move as he gnashes his teeth.
He is a rabid Wests Tigers fan of course, always meticulously turned out in the very latest club garb.
He appears to need no mider as he's quite capable of getting on with it himself.
When the Tigers score a try his arms flap about uncontrollably and by the look on his face he assumes a state of ecstatic happiness.
He's also mute, so of course, makes no sound.
Bless.
There were also displays of ordinary humanity.
Like when the rookie fullback kiddie James Tedesco was stretchered off with what looked like a major season-ending mischief, in the first half of his first game in first grade.
Just 19 years old with the world at his feet; spectators are so close to the action at Leichhardt, you could hear his cry of agony when he went down like a sack of potatoes with an ACL in what was an innocuous tackle.
It was a pitiful sight.
Everyone around us shook their heads and were saying to each other "the poor poor suffering child" as he was given a standing ovation as he was gurneyed to the sideline and taken down the race right in front of us, with the palm of his left hand covering his face so no one could see his weeping.
Enough to move even the hardest heart.
Keefy Galloway was the MOTM by the length of the street for mine...some great yard making runs and always punishing tackles.
Most unfortunately, looks like the bludnut with be out for up to the next six weeks after doing a mischief to one of his feet, of all things.
The marquee signing for this year, Adam Blair, playing in the second row, looked a bit lost in his first game for Balmain, but he is without doubt a big, black, rangy, mobile, nasty bastard.
In other words, a good buy, even though he could take some time to settle.
Forwards played well, but the backs did nothing off some good platforms.
Be My Beau Ryan scoreda try withing 60 seconds of the start off a very lucky bounce in a kick and chase , while Benji used his xray vision and the eyes in the back of his head to pick a narrow gap in the Sharks' defence, and waltzed through the advantage line from 15 yards out with barely a hand laid on him in the opening stanza.
But, most were missing in action in the second half as they were simply outplayed.
More head shaking, particularly at one ridiculous play where the ball was allowed to be bobbled about in the Cronulla backline through about ten sets of hands before an effective tackle was finally made.
Joisus.
The only antidote to that is to have another drink.
Beers have gone up to $6, but no one was complaining.
It's still served ice cold [too cold to hold in mid-winter without gloves] and still served in tins [Balmain fans, it appears, are the only ones in the comp who can be trusted not to throw half full ones at the Bamfords, even under extreme provocation].
Speaking of which, the Bamfords, playing par for the course, had a complete shocker.
It's rare that both sides complained, Cronulla more bitterly, that they were robbed blind, and should have won by plenty if it wasn't for hopelessly incompetant officialdom.
So rare, that the league came straight out and stood down from umpiring duties for a week one J.Maxwell [remember the name, he's a serial offender, he's the Ray Chamberlain of the NRL, constantly on the jibber] for being a bumbling fool.
He'd completely lost control of the game in the denoument.
Cronulla played filthy throughout with high shots, not to mention the sly elbows and knees going in all over the shop, and at one point some Shark rabbit punched a Tiger in the face while he was on the ground as he was being held in the tackle as plain as day for all to see, and breathtakingly, the Bamford gave the penalty to the offender!
Give me strength.
Given that, the Balmain Boys didn't like it much, and hit back, as the game went on to become quite brutal.
After the Sharks were wrongly penalised for being offside in a charge-down in the first set of extra time, and gave Balmain field position to set up the field goal, Benji put it on the toe on the third tackle from about forty yards out; it wobbled strangely off the boot, before settling into an eliptical orbit and only just cleared the crossbar - we are talking a couple of inches here - with the fat part of the ball ocillating wildly.
17-16.
Game over.
The crowd went absolutely apeshit as The Great Marshall danced about on his twinkle toes waggling the fingers of both hands in the air with a wicked grin on his face.
Balmain did not deserve to win, the Good Lady Wife remarked, going so far as to say the second half was "crap"; but they got away with the get out of jail free card, which is always a good thing to get first up.
On interview after the match, SC Sheens only ventured one comment:
"well, you win some, you lose some. We'll take our wins, and we'll learn from our losses"
The football gods were still smiling.

WESTS TIGERS 17. Tries: Ryan (2), Marshall. Goals: Marshall (2). Field Goals: Marshall (1).
CRONULLA-SUTHERLAND SHARKS 16. Tries: Best, Carney, De Gois. Goals: Carney (2).
At Leichhardt Oval.
Crowd: 19,762.

Not since Lawry...

Fruit pickers,

Fancy Punter being dropped after playing as Captain and making his highest score of the series in his last game?
Not since Lawry...
What's the chances of him giving the whole caper away tomorrow, and making his farewell tour in Tasmania's last few Sheffield Shield games of the season?
It'd be a marketing triumph as huge crowds flock to the grounds to see the last hurrah!
And as far as anyone knows, the Great Hadds is still resting, albiet uncomfortably, after keeping wicket for a side which has just suffered the worst loss, at Perth, of anyone in the Sheffield Shield since WWII, ipso facto, the Bombing of Darwin.
The new Chairman and The Faceless Men have obviously got communication and change management down to a tee.
Even though it is the trifle that is the pyjama game, with mixed messages coming in hard and fast and free of charge, Ponting and Haddin must be seriously re-thinking their prospects of being picked in a 15 man Test squad for the West Indies, with Invers & Co. quite clearly on their cases.
Ricky must worry about where he fits in, and whether they could justify taking him as essentially the spare middle order bat and whether he might join Jason Gillespie as the only other player to be dropped after making a double hundred in his last Test match, while Brad might expect to be picked but not play a game on tour as the reserve wicketkeeper, if they select one at all [which they should], but he could also wonder that the selectors might be thinking the Caribbean is no place for Old Men.
Pleasing to see MJ Clarke has recovered from his dose of Shagger's Back - obviously caused by spending too much time up on the work bench with his new girlfriend - cleverly disguised by the spin doctors as a minor hammy.
Just gave Pup some invaluable time on the Jason Recliner to ponder the new order and contemplate how it's all going to work on the next tour.
Without the current contretemps, the one-day series would pass almost without notice in Straya.
It's interesting to note the stark contrast with India.
My youngest daughter last week found herself on the ghats in Benares when the Indians won their first game of the summer against Straya in Adelaide.
She said word had filtered through and she heard no end of it from the locals, and was the subject of constant good-natured ribbing.
After they had calmed down, they then invariably, soberly, asked her what her esteemed opinion was on whether or not India could win the series.
She told them they were dreaming.

five bells

Cathedralists,

Well, well, well.
What to make of MJ Clarke being undefeated in Test series since becoming Strayan Skipper?
The word on the street is that he has scored five tons, two of them very heavy, since assuming the top job, including the well documented triple in Sydney, backed up with the double on a six-lane highway masquerading as a pitch against a dispirited attack in Adelbrain, that was there for all to see.
All the shots, the trademark strokes.
Never mind the 27 boundaries and the elegant cover driving and the straight hitting, you'd have to wonder if there has been a better exponent of such stylish leg side play in the modern game?
Seems to have largely put the pull and the cut shots away, as he doesn't need them, which is a pity, as anything he hits through point is invariably pretty to watch.
Don't see it as much these days.
But MJ Clarke, still, has a credibility problem, despite scoring 594 test runs in not much more than a fortnight of cricket, and captaining the team in an exemplary fashion, which has been widely commented on by purists.
Why is it so?
Surely he can now be forgiven for being a precociously talented idiot buffoon in his yoof?
How long does that take for people to forget about it?
Let's face it, when the deposed Captain was asked before the last test about his relationship with the current Captain, Punter replied "I think we are both grown-ups".
You'd hope that the general public would realise this at some some stage of proceedings.
You only have to take the Siddler on the Roof picking up the Man of the Match Award for taking six wickets in the match and scoring two runs in Flat City; never mind Pup's 210, and the fact that Cockhead's 221 was quite likely a better knock altogether on the whole.
What the???
They begrudgingly gave Pup the Man of the Series Award, which was reportedly a small cream cake that you could barely cut into 12 pieces.
Big whoop.
My spy at the ground - who seemed to spend much of his time in the finest bar in world cricket - the salubrious air-conditioned Col Egar Bar [named after the late, good local Malvern boy, who became a famous test umpire and a legendary massive pisstank] - right down there at the River Torrens End with a perfect view of the ground through port-hole windows almost right behind the bowler's arm - was taken with some big-time Curry Munchers' fan who appeared at the ground dressed in the full Indian ODI kit, with "Match Fixer" in the name space on the back.
Nice touch.
Disturbingly, it appears the Col Egar is earmarked for demolition, in another appalling error of judgement.
If it's not broke, why fix it?
Everyday, some underpinning slips away...
Not here to say that the Indians were weak & feeble.
They had plenty of excuses; comprehensively outplayed for starters, the chai was obviously all wrong, and served in inappropriate china, the curried egg sandwiches at lunch just didn't cut the mustard, they weren't being taken to the right restaurants, the girls were fat and ugly, and they liked to whinge about each other behind each other's backs etc.
Not to mention the fact that they probably decided amongst themselves to throw the series completely from the outset and take the narrow margins on a Strayan clean-sweep on offer at the books.
However it was done, at 4-nil, 4-nil, 4-nil, 4-nil, some gloating is in order, especially after the Ashes Disaster a mere 12 months ago.
Pulled the tickertape off of the last cable that chattered in on the bush telegraph in the corner of the loungeroom from the sceret agent at the Oval, and it read: "STOP PRESS: Indian team seeks political asylum in Australia. Tendulkar honoured to drive your cab, when next in Adelaide".

backyard cricket at gate G in a thunderstorm

Bleacherites,

Last Sunday evening, found myself at the Olympic Stadium for the Twenty20 match Sydney Thunder v Sydney Sixers, whoever they are, with me ol' mate Trev in the company of his two young lads aged ten and 15.
After the third and final, fatal, rain delay, a most extraordinary thing happened.
We went out to the smoking lounge near the toilets out the back of Bay 115.
Trev fished out a cricket bat about a third the size of a regulation willow from his bag, and a ball that was a touch heavier and bouncier than a tennis ball, and chucked to his two boys.
After they'd been hitting about aimlessly for a bit, caught the sight of three boys about 11 or 12 out of the corner of my eye, who were standing around taking a keen interest in the proceedings.
Suggested to Trev that he go over to his boys and suggest to them they ask the lads watching if they'd like hit.
The thing then took on a life of its own and went completely viral.
Soon there were half a dozen more boys playing, and it wasn't long before a couple of adults had cottoned on to it, and had set up some stumps using those tall witches hats, the ones with 'caution wet floor' on them, and organised a rudimentary field.
Then it was on; serious overam bowling.
More boys joined in, and then a wicketkeeper appeared in the form of a bearded hipster in his early twenties, who played very well with his bare hands.
He soon put in a slips cordon with his mates and it was on for young and old.
Boisterous play with the boys given their head to bowl and bat how they liked.
As if it was the most natural thing in the world, a chorus of older men had gathered behind the bowlers arm and became a vocal Umpire's Chorus, turning down most leg before appeals and stumpings and bump ball catches; but if you were out, they made sure that you knew you were out, and the bat was quickly passed to the kid bowler.
The Umpires Chorus were referred to the DRS once, when a particularly good stumping was given out by general acclamation.
A few of the young lads could play, and were smacking the ball all over the shop at pace, to the point where the rubber ball started to become a problem, as more younger boys became involved in the game, and they changed to a regulation tennis ball.
In the end there would have been more than a dozen batters and bowlers, but there were also more than 30 active fielders - so no one lasted at the crease very long - and in excess of 300 spectators, who had gathered around after being attracted by the loud noise and the cheering, with the match going on in the entry/exit chute next to the closed Gate G.
After about half an hour of observing this frenetic action, with real live thunderbolts and lightning all about, and the rain bucketing down big time on the stadium awning under which the game was being played, which was booming with the constant raucus appealing, security closed it down, saying there were too many people in such a confined space - and although they were called names and accused of being wankers - they were quite right for a change, and besides the main match had been declared dead and buried, and they were trying to close the ground.
In reality, it was in danger of getting out of hand, if it hadn't already,
Early on, me and Trev stepped out of the loop and just let it go, surveying the scene and looking at each other in astonishment saying "what have we started!!??"
In the dénouement, Trev boldly chested a security guard, so had to step in and subtly pull him off the bloke before there was any kind of fracas, and tell him in a quiet and sociable way to go get his bat and ball and go home.
Which we did, after the storm had moved off to the north-east and the rain had all but stopped.
The exuberant spontaneity was 100% politically incorrect in this day and age of absurd rules and over-regulation and public liabily etc etc - but jeez, just for that snap shot in time, it was so much illegal fun.
There was enough cricket played on the main arena to see Fidel Edwards off his long run -- funny to watch as he started his run up a few yards in from the insanely short boundary rope and the ball flew through to the keeper who was standing an equivalent number of yards in from the boundary at the other end!
Any bat that happened to connect with that sort of stuff would be guaranteed to send the ball twenty rows back.
Watching Chris Gale bowling off a three step run up was simply hilarious.
Bing Lee proved he can still play at his age by sending down a couple of overs at full pelt [then again, Bingers always did chuck his really quick short ball, so he's ideal for the format].
MA Starc took three wickets in four balls to have the Thunderbirds in all sorts of doggy do before the final deluge came, and yet the home side was still not saved by rain.
What the?
With the Pattinson Kiddie gorn for the season, you'd pick Starkers straight up for Perth, wouldn't you?
The only disappointment was that TSC MacGill failed to get out of his Zimmer frame at any stage, and didn't bat or bowl.
None of the other superstars involved in the match did much.
Think: Dunk, Floros, Coyte, Abbott, Mora, Nevill, and two Smiths among other household names.
The size of the crowd surprised - having seen plenty a Swans games at the ground thought it was more than 25K, so the offical attendance figure of 31,262 was just about right on the money, and there would have been more in, no doubt, if there hadn't been the threat of dodgy weather about.
Guessing that the people know what they want, and it aint outrageously overpriced test cricket.
Twenty20 is very keenly priced at just over $10 a ticket for a four game package deal and $20 for walk up general admission, so why not?
Cheap, fun, simple entertainment for the bread and circuses crowd.
Another interesting phenomenon was observed; at least two different groups of well dressed young folk who would have been in their mid 20's, who had with them one of those classic Tupperware circular trays with the compartments in it, you know the sort of thing, one holding the cabanossi, the next the cheese cubes on toothpicks, the next the gerkins and pickled onions, the next the olives, the next the crackers and french onion dip, the next the tinned asparagas spears wrapped in ham and devils an horseback etc etc.
Thinking that this was either a seriously retro statement, or that they had just been taught well about the finer things in life when it comes to finger foods by their Western Suburbs parents.
Who knows?
After it was all said and done, found an abandoned incandescent fluoro lime green wig that some bloke had thrown down on the Olympic Sprinter platform at Lidcombe station in an desultory fashion, and stomped on.
He was obviously unhinged by lunatic soup, and made filthy by the rain delays and the fact that the Thunderbirds were officially declared the losers under the Duckworth-McIntyre-Hare-Clarke-Lewis system.
How anyone could possibly conjour up a winner out of that mess has got me and Trev beat.
Somehow, the laughable toupée ended up on my bonce.
Enough to do your head in.

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.

no laurels to rest on

Critics,

Well, well, well.
What to make of MJ Clarke's third series as Captain?
Only thing that can be said for certain is that he remains undefeated, and even at 1-1 through the odd quirk of the last time they played them, still managed to retain the Trans-Tasman trophy.
After Brisbane, you could understand that the very long gap in tests played between Australia and New Zealand (1946-1973) was perhaps the right call.
After the Blicks first win on Strayan soil in 26 years in Hobart a week later, you could be forgiven for thinking otherwise.
Joisus.
Just what is going on?
Pup's big ton in Brisbane was as pretty as a picture.
He's undoubtedly the best cover driver in the game when he gets the sweet spot, and there's no better square cut around at present.
Game changer, as they say in the modern jargon.
He had every right to be filthy that he didn't get man-of-the-match.
What the??
So, isn't it strange that in match where the Skipper makes virtually no contribution at all with the blade, the Kiwi's come up and bite them on the arse, hard.
They should bear the fang marks for a while.
Not that 241 was ever going to be easy to get on that pitch at Bellerive, after making 136 in the first innings to find themselves 14 runs behind.
You'd only have to ask Clarkey what he thought about it after being bowled neck and crop while not offering a shot in the second innings for sfa.
It's just like Clarke, who constantly fidgets and fiddles with himself while he's at the crease, to be a touch hyper-active with his field changes, for mine, as he hops about in the slips, which certainly contributes to the appallingly tardy over rates.
Something else he could tidy up.
Very sad to see Ponting being a fool to himself and a burden on the community.
While he's still pretty sharp in the field, and doesn't quite yet need the old man's motorised buggy with a red flag on the back and a shopping basket out the front to run between the wickets, he seems to have lost his eye in his advancing years against honest seam bowling that's on the move, and the way he slowly shuffles across his crease, suggests that he's lost the fancy footwork as well, and that leaves him wide open to be trapped leg before, playing on, or being bowled through the gate.
Surely he must know in his heart of hearts that he should have taken the ultimate responsibilty, fallen on his sword, and retired gracefully with some dignity after the Ashes Debacle.
Why put enormous pressure on yourself and the new selectors by being a shadow of your former self?
Someone has to draw a line in the sand, and for the best accumulator of runs for Straya since Bradman, it should be him.
Thanks for all the fish Ricky, we'll see you down in the Legends Lounge at the Twilight Home.
Mr Cricket finds himself in the same predicament, at his age, with the eye and the timing all but gorn.
Time to get on the Jason Recliner and take it easy, Mike, ol' boy.
The selectors would also want to have a look at how many byes Hadds has conceded and the percentage of fumbled takes in recent games; he's looking like a slow moving bus behind the pegs of late with an erratic driver behind the wheel, notwithstanding his excellent stumping in Hobart - mind you, it was a carefully planned set play, and only the fourth of his test career.
Poor ol' PJ Hughes looks like being sent to the spelling paddock; the fact that he's been caught by the same fieldsman in the slips off the same bowler four times in a row would have to count against him, and he'd be rueing the fact that there's no first class cricket between now and Christmas, by dint of some stupidly clever work in Cricket Australia's Match Scheduling Department, who've decided to put on a Mickey Mouse two-day game and a three-day match, neither of which are first class, as the Indian tour matches, with most players tied up by good money to the Big Bash, which is yet to show if it can draw crowds, and hence gate receipts, or indeed, any interest at all.
The Token Muzzie is so full of promise and yet continues to disappoint by his apparent inablity to go on with it after making a start, but should probably be persisted with for the time being.
The Suburban Boy, who not so long ago once feared that he'd never play first class cricket, let alone test cricket, obviously looks the goods in the long form and is likely to be a big star in all three.
And he's a good, honest kid to boot - all power to his oars.
Happily, the fast bowling stocks appear to be fairly deep for a change, despite the number of young tear-aways who find themselves in Casualty Wards all over the country, and the Token South Australian [mind you, he was born in NSW] looks to be developing into a solid, efficient, if unspectactular, offie.
MJ Clarke, Mr RJ Inverarity and the faceless men have some work to do, before they can settle into the Christmas Pud with Brandy Sauce and double cream while sipping on a draft of fine tawny port.
Oh, yessiree.
Simply no laurels to rest on.