no shortage of fun and games

Pup, Pup, Pup.
What were you thinking?
Apart from running yourself out, there is only one more cardinal sin in test cricket: being bowled neck and crop without offering a shot.
Dear oh dear oh dear.
The look is not good.
Probably a good thing that Michael never turned around to survey the wreckage of the woodwork - he'd heard all he needed to hear in the death rattle - and just headed straight for the pavilion.
As always, there's not much to do in Melbun after Xmas; everything's shut, so might as well go the cricket.
More than a quarter of a million folk over the course of four days thought it was a good idea.
Either that, or smash in the windows of the Prada store on Collins St at 1:30am Boxing Day, and loot the shop, as passers-by scoop up gear the robbers had dropped on the footpath and take off, or perhaps get involved in an all-in brawl between rival mobs of A-League soccer supporters, cracking pool cues and chairs over each other's heads at 3:30am, before the game, that night!
No shortage of fun and games in the Athens of The South.
Utterly unbelievable that the Engerlanders could lose the unloseable test, having sqaundered a priceless 51 run first innings lead, when they could have put Straya completely away on the third day, no trouble.
It didn't look a tough proposition for the Poms to set a winning target way beyond 300, which would have been very hard, if not impossible to get, until you come to the realisation that their noodle is totally fried.
The Massacre in Melbourne was never in doubt
Still, both sides were afflicted with "frail batting".
It's now plain for all to see that Clarke worked out Cook during the winter disaster in The Heart of the Empire, and determined that he would mess with the Pommy skipper's head in the summer.
Worked a treat, as it turned out.
Two Poms go completely mad, give up, and go home - we are talking the No.3 bat and the front line spinner, here.
At this stage of proceedings, Captain Cook must be entirely off his rocker - with any luck Pup would have sent around a couple of blokes in white lab coats to his hotel room to strap him back into his Jason Recliner, and give him a hospital-strength brandy.
Strategically outplayed by Captain Clarke throughout the entire series to date; Clarkey uses every trick there is in the well-thumbed tactics book.
Marvellous sledging also...Joke Johnno v Serial Pest KP Pietersen when the southerly buster hit and plastic bags, tumbleweeds, unidentified objects, and hollowed out watermelons began rolling across the ground, causing the precious batsman to back away from his guard and put his hand up.
JJ will probably get away with fielding the ball off his own bowling and chucking the pill in the buffoon's direction, but Pup wasn't that interested in pulling Mitch in, or telling him to behave himself.
"Stomp 'n' snort all you like son, just let 'em loose, and I'll come between you and the umpire, if needs be."
The way it's going there won't be any need for weak Bamfords, just let the players go at it hammer and tongs, and any contentious disputes about possible dismissals can be referred to the man on the couch with the telly on his lap.
Always pleasing to see the old blokes go well.
Pup at 32 [fine captaincy], Hadds at 36 [dug the team out of a huge hole), JJ at 32 (top-shelf hostile pace bowling), Ginger Rogers at 36 (match winning ton), all had outstanding games; Bailey at 31 being the odd man out.
Bill Bailey might just be not up to test standard, which is a pity, as he's an obvious choice as next skipper, but in this day and age, team's can't afford to carry Passenger Captains, a la JM Brearley OBE.
Little wonder they've called Mr Hooly Dooly, at 28, into the 14-man squad for the SCG.
Pup of course was not called upon to do anything at all in the second innings, by then it was the most ignomidable defeat handed to the tourists to date...no quarter given, no prisoners taken...when Straya found themselves handed the gilt-edged opportunity of victory on a silver platter.
Given that the new stand at the SCG, despite all the promises, is far from complete - it reportedly only has half a roof - and the punters who turn up will be treated like offal, as usual - thinking best place for me will be in the magic waters, gazing out over the Tasman Sea, with my trusty transistor wireless tucked into nmy bathers.
Bring on the Slaughter in Sydney.
Let huge Great Whites loom up and launch themselves onto the beach and gobble up all the Poms in Bondi.
Barmy Army decimated in one fell swoop.
"five-nil! five-nil! five-nil!" etc
You know the words.

point at the heavy roller

Jubilationists,

The gigantic tusk up the Pommy runter - no finer sight in world sport.
They've felled a forest for newsprint to mention things like redemption, the best comeback since Lazarus, revenge, back-chat, was Warner over-punished for a glancing blow in a nightclub setting, the remarkable rebirthing of Joke Johnno, unwarranted triuphalism, respect, and the general meaning of that'n'shit; but when all is said an done it simply came down to hard cricket well played.
Losing three tosses in a row, the Englanders found themselves snookered and simply out-played in all departments, with nowhere to go.
For the Poms, it's a case of do not pass go, do not collect $200, proceed directly to Graylands.
Of course, MJ Clarke made next to no contribution with the bat - it was too fookin' hot, leave making runs to others - and in any case, as was pointed out by my spy at the ground "Pup is too busy to bat".
But his superlative captaincy was once again to the fore.
His second innings declaration was a regulation one, but clever, nonetheless.
A 500 run lead can really mess with batsmen's heads, with time, runs and wickets, all still in play.
As is usual, the Strayan Captain was denied, once again - on orders from Lords, what a disgrace - his perfect right to smash open the ridiculous little urn, smear the ashes on the pitch, drop the duds, plop a well formed beige turd on them, hitch up the tweeds, and then point at the heavy roller and say to the groundsmen, "there ya go boys, roll 'em in".
They would have been over the moon, and more than happy to comply with the skippy's request
People are saying it's Pup's finest hour, which it may well be, but he seems to be well aware that one monkey don't make no show.
He never wanted to emulate Punter losing the Ashes no less than three times - Lord knows MJC has been there twice as captain - and besides, Boof is in the house.
Captain Cook's eyes have sunk so far back into his eye sockets that they still look like pissholes in the snow.
No doubt they'll roast a turkey or two on Xmas day at Graylands, with all the trimmings, in honour of the visiting Poms.
A bit off topic here...but sad to hear all these alarming stories about it most likely being the last ever test match at the WACA.
Not really happy with the current thinking of the ICC and CA that says "if it's not a stadium, then it's not a test venue".
Sure, everything is substandard in Perth; long beer queues, drinking fountains and urinals farked from lack of maintenance and overuse, people being triaged out the back for hospitalisation due to heat stroke et al - but isn't that half the attraction?
Old cricket grounds as we knew and loved them were generally hot, sweaty, dirty, shitty places, where people have a licence to pour warm beer on one another and shout out gibberish that they'd never get away with elsewhere.
Nothing wrong with that.
Can still clearly recall the only time the Western Australian Cricket Association ground has been graced with my presence for a one-day international during the America's Cup in '87, sitting in a wicker chair on the balcony of the Member's Enclosure with a full view of the playing field, and afternoon shade, with a frosty glass of Emu Bitter in hand, think it was.
What's not to love about that?
Seems, though, that those days have gone away.
Almost every day, some underpinning slips away.
Dropped by the Front Bar at The Local the morning after the urn was returned.
Found The Philosopher in his usual corner savouring this week's favoured tipple, an ice-cold flute of Seaview Brut, the house bubbly, as he persued the eight-page spread on the cricket at the back of the fishwrap.
Ventured an off-hand remark to no-one in particular that the Poms, with the Ashes are gorn, might as well go home for Xmas and not come back, and was promptly howled down.
The Philosopher remained silent, but a long-time habitué of the bar, who's not known for his deep thought on any subject matter, snapped "NO! That is where you are WRONG, Craven. Dead wrong. Nothing less than five-nil will do, now."
Who's to argue?.

they're going to Graylands

Revellers,

Dropped by the Front Bar at The Local the morning after going 2-0 up with the Annihilation in Adelbrain, and found The Philosopher in his usual corner toying with this week's favoured tipple - a screwdriver with a slice of lemon and a red glace cherry on top.
[Turns out a barmaid had fooled him with a line of nonsense about how cherries are good for you; a health-giving fruit].
Asked him what the name of the lunatic asylum in Perth is, on account of there will be an entire England cricket team in there this time next week in an extremely distressed state after going down 3-0 and finding the ASHES GORN!
Suprisingly, the Philosopher didn't know the answer to the question, so he batted it along the bar until some other sage replied "The place is called 'Graylands'. At Mt Claremont, I think you'll find. One of the finest metal institutions in the country. X-Block is particularly good for the terminally disturbed, apparently".
Tried to get the Brown Bros to join in a rousing rendition of the well-worn refrain "Poms on toast! Poms on toast! Poms on toast!", but they weren't in it, smarting as they were from New Zealand having been cruelly robbed by rain of certain victory over the West Indies.
They were fair glum, eh bro?
In a match chock full of "tipping points" it's difficult to pin-point the one that sent Captain Cook completely bonkers.
Was it is own dismissal in the 1st innings, bowled neck & crop by Joke Johnno [now there's a phoenix rising from the ashes if ever there was one, after his papers were clearly marked "never to play for Australia again" Whappun]?
Or was it Pup's brilliant catch, on the leap in slips away to his right to take out Swann, before tumbling to the ground all arms and legs while still managing to hold onto the ball, to hammer the final nail into the English coffin as JJ went through them like a dose of salts at almost a hundred miles an hour?
Or maybe it was Clarkey's extraordinary 148 under the circumstances, when he was obviously far from 100% fit?
Lucky if he was 65%.
He was forced to largely put away the trademark cover driving, and his chronic case of Shagger's Back meant square cutting and straight hitting was out of the question; too much pain and muscle strain.
Happy and content just scoring most of his runs through his richly rewarding leg side play - there's no finer exponent of the leg glance in the modern game - and just nurdling it off his hips for one's, two's, and three's.
Not his most spectacular knock by any means, but in the context of the match and the series, one of his best; absolutely priceless.
Robbed of the Man-of-the-Match award, for mine.
No doubt he would have arranged to have Arnie's Spinal Tap Machine shipped west for a thorough work out before the WACA.
Or was it Pup's superlative captaincy, with clever rotation of the bowling, relentlessly setting traps left-right-and-centre for hapless Pommie batsmen; always one step ahead of the opposition in the field?
Who knows?
There is no doubt MJ Clarke has very seriously messed with Cook's head - he's at his wits end and is now paralysed into inaction; doesn't know whether he's Arthur or Martha, or whether he's coming or going
After the match, Cook was such a quivering mass of nerve endings that he was unable to speak coherently, and later, the Flower Pot Man wouldn't be pressed beyond describing the recent results as "difficult", but was heard to say under his breath "can't bat, can't bowl, can't field in Australian conditions"
They must be really encouraged by the reaction of the Pommie Press - who've never been known for holding back it when it comes to bagging their own - with the Adelbrain performance variously headlined in the britarse fishwraps as "wretched - weak - timid - gormless."
He's not one to gloat or anything, but The Stats Guru was eager to point out that the winning target set by Australia was more than the England aggregate of runs in the then three test innings to date at that point.
Never mind the fear in the eyes of the Englishmen.
They'd no doubt be aware of the brown paper sandwich bags stuffed full of cash that would have arrived in the Curator's Shed at the Western Australian Cricket Association Ground under the cover of darkness, just to make certain that the pitch is well and truly doctored to suit the home team.
A sideways glance at the weather forecast for Perth for the five days of the match with predicted maximum degrees celsius temperatures of 38, 38, 38, 39, & 37 would leave the pasty Poms frothing at the mouth.
Do idea at all what they think of Day One being Friday the 13th.
But, doubt that the tourists will enjoy the Festive Season all that much.

brouhaha in Brisvegas

Fellow Uncouths,

What's not to love about a brouhaha in Brisbane?
When all is said and done it was the twin tons what done it.
MJ Clarke in partnership with DA Warner.
Never mind the 1st innings, if you play your cards right, there's always a second bite at the cherry in a test match
After MJ Clarke was out to a plodding plod prod to cough up a lolly first time around, very pleasing to see him reply with a well made hundred in the second innings.
Burbs Warner could do what he liked at the other end.
One of Pup's finest knocks, considering.
The bloke is far from fully fit, it's only the fifty grand he spent on Arnold Schwarzegger's former personal trainer's Spinal Tap Machine that keeps him on the paddock - and his mind could be anywhere off field.
Who knows what happens in his dreams when he sleeps.
Superlative leg side play as always, and the cover driving is surely by now in the "how to play cricket" textbooks.
No idea what bat he uses, but when the FX mic captures it, it's a marvellous sound when he finds the meat of the thing, and it rattles away to the boundary.
And the one six he hit reminded me of the one he tonked clean into Mullet Creek over the netball courts from Newcastle No.1 Ground very early on in his first class career with Mark Waugh batting at the other end.
Still on the up as it left the field and went large.
And then there's Clarkey's captaincy in the England first innings.
All the good batting came after Straya had been accused of using "intimidatory bowling" to a leg side field.
When asked on the radio whether he thought the amount of short-pitched bowling was a bit over the top, Allan Border replied "I didn't know that that was still in the rules?".
Always within the Letter of the The Laws.
Won with 381 runs and a day to spare.
18 holes at Royal Brisbane on Monday has been booked by Saturday afternoon.
Make a statement early on, why don't you.
1-0 up in a five match series is absolutely priceless.
The weak poof tourists will struggle to recover from that, mark my words.
Warner should take up psychiatry for a living, when he gives the game away.
Well qualified.
Called the Poms early with "scared eyes", even before the match was a few days old, and then called Trott's final dismal dismissal "pretty weak".
A fine judge of human fraility.
So, Trott goes mad...
Quits Ashes tour with "stress-related illness"
Sent totally bonkers by the experience, and simply can't go on.
Cricket can really fark with a bloke's head, that's for certian.
It's a hard, ruthless, unforgiving game - not for the faint hearted.
Nervous breakdowns in the caper are not a new phenomenon, by any means.
Just ask Marcus Stresscothic.
He'll tell you.
Or Kim Hughes for that matter.
All ended in tears, but mind you, he was at the end of his tether, by then.
Or the England slow bowler Johnny Briggs, who went off the edge of the cliff into utter madness during the course of the 1899 Leeds test match, was admitted to Cheadle Lunatic Asylum, never to emerge from the place where he died young.
Didn't bat in the second innings, where his scorecard is forever marked "absent, ill".
It's bloody marvellous isn't it when the Strayan Captain is fined 20% of his match fee by the ICC for stepping in to defend George Bailey - who'd been threatened by that serial pest Jimmy Anderson with a fight in the carpark - threatening the cocky Pom with having his fookin' arm broken by Mitchell Johnson in the denoument?
Apparantley the obscenity was the issue, otherwise he would have got a medal.
Joisus.
The Bamfords should stay right out it it - the weak umpires have more to do on deliberately slow over rates, which are a disgrace.
If they have the powers to police it, why don't they?
Alice Springs is a wonderful place to send a bunch of hapless, suburnt, psychologically damaged Poms to play a two-day carnival match, where Engalnd's Entertainment Officer Monte Panesar will no doubt be the star turn - before they go on to play on a lifeless bitch, er, pitch, at the ruins of the Adelaide Oval, where millions of runs for not many wickets have been scored of late in first class matches.
Whoever dreamt up that scheduling is an out and out bloody genius.
Prepare for a spot of nodding off and lounge slumbering.
Both sides will be playing for the draw in Adelbrain.
All is well with the world.
Turned over the fishwrap this morning to read that 'Strayan coach Darren "Boof" Lehmann has rejected out of hand a proposal by his English counter-part, the Flower Pot Man, to have a formal meeting to discuss player behaviour and the general madness'.
Reading between the lines, appears Boof has told the clown "nah, fook off, ya git, and go and stew in yr own juice".
Looks like the pasty Poms are going to have the time of their lives in Central Straya:

Alice Springs Forecast

Issued at 5:00 am CST on Wednesday 27 November 2013

Warning Summary
Nil.

Forecast for Wednesday
Partly cloudy. Light to moderate east to northeast winds.

Precis: Partly cloudy.
Alice Springs Max 39
UV Alert 8:10 am to 4:30 pm, UV Index predicted to reach 14 [Extreme]

Thursday Afternoon shower or storm. Min 23 Max 38
Friday Afternoon shower or storm. Min 22 Max 37
Saturday Late shower or storm. Min 21 Max 38

loose the bears on the midgets pt II

Brave Beserkers,

Pleasing to hear the Skipper declaring midweek that the selectors are a bunch of jesters, buffoons, and hopeless jokes who under normal circumstances wouldn't be called upon to do anything at all, on account of the "the team picks itself".
No wonder he sacked himself as a selector.
However, Pup forgot to mention that The Board parachuted GJ Bailey into the side as the new Mike Brearley.
Can't bat, can't bowl, can't field, but he's captained every other Strayan team, bar the test side, and hasn't had a lash at the five-day caper.
So, just pick him and hide him somewhere in the batting order so he can learn the ropes, given that the powers that be obviously reckon he's the best current option as MJ Clarke's replacement as the boss, for when the time comes when Pup's chronic Shagger's Back Syndrome finally confines him to a wheelchair, and everybody knows that's likely to be sooner than later.
Precisely what FIGJAM Watson and Joke Johnno are doing in the team is anyone's guess.
Good to see Dave "from the suburbs" Warner back at the top of the order after serving an unusually long time in purgatory for clocking the Root, for which of course, he should have been given a medal.
Burbs will love nothing more than grinding Poms into the dust.
After all, grinding Poms into the dust is among the finest sights in all world sport.
Straya and the Draw are equal favourites at the books for the Gabba, so the home side has got to be some chance of kicking off the whole shebang on the right note, weather permitting.
You have to live in hope.
Loose the bears on the midgets, and let the gaming begin!

i have no answers

Dreamers,

The morning after the Disaster in Durham, remember wandering into the local newsagent and flipping over one of the fishwraps, only to see the back page headline scream in bold type:
MICHAEL CLARKE: I HAVE NO ANSWERS.
And he still doesn't.
Bet he's glad he dropped himself from the selection panel, so he can't be blamed for that part of the debacle, at least.
Despite the appaling result and the loss of the Ashes away, Michael captained the side in exemplary fashion, by all reports, and carried himself with aplomb playing test match cricket for days and days on end, and scored a very good hundred to boot.
But, most unfortunatley, Pup knows that he's rooted.
Heard him on radio interview the other day when he made himself unavailable for India and said "it's been a problem for me since I was 17"
After all those years on the workbench, Shagger's Back has finally caught up with him.
Damn shame, that.
And now, in breaking news, it appears Clarkey is "under a cloud" for the first test in Brisbane, ":if you ask my physiotherapist".
Deary me.
Imagine my mild astonishment to find, on the day after the AFL Grand final, on switching on the digital telly, a one-day cricket match between NSW and Tasmania being beamed into my loungeroom live and direct from the beautiful Bankstown Oval.
The Blue Bags played a swag of test players and won easy.
Nice, unexpected start to the summer.
However much you hate Poms, you have to admire the sheer cheek of the most disreputable club in the whole world, the MCC, and the selection committee at Lords, for picking Monty "Farkin" Panesar to go to the Ashes Pt II, as the touring clown.
Monty had what Wisden described as a "poor domestic season, both on and off the field" and yet he gets picked for the Australian tour solely on the strength of his solid reputation for annoying the bejus out of Australians.
Jibber, jibber, jibber.
Nothing but trouble that bloke, if he plays a game; otherwise he can just wheel out the drinks trolley and the tray of gin and tonics at tea, and know his place.
To his credit, though, at least he's not Harbhajan Singh.
Luckily, Straya has a very effective weapon in the fight against the Panesar Scourge in the form of Dave Warner From The Suburbs.
Provocatiion is Dave's long suit, and he can't wait for the first opportunity to get right up Monty's nose, or any other Pom that happens to come near him, Root, chief among them.
He's got form there, with the knock out left-arm jab to the snout the preferred option.
Did time for that when he should have got a medal.
Warner has a a pathological dislike of Poms in all shapes, colours and sizes, which should be encouraged.
So he can, must, and will, open the batting, just to teach the arseholes a lesson.
FIGJAM can go suit himself.
How a player so useless could dupe the selectors for so long is beyond me.
Does he have pictures of them?
Found myself in an easy-chair the other day chatting with some people who know about these things over a couple of beers when the subject of Watto came up.
The Stats Guru mentioned in passing that SR Watson holds the all-time world's record for the most number of times out in the 40's in test matches, and is close to it out in the 90's.
As he said "speaks volumes".
Seems the team, the powers-that-be, and most fans have written off losing in England as a bad joke, a freak abberation against a mob of dirty low-dog cheatin' bastards.
Some truth in that, but there might be more to it than that.
No idea who Straya will throw up as an XI, given that there is not a lot to work with.
But, hey, the sun in shining and you can only dream of a repeat of 06-07, enjoying being thrown out of pubs for baiting Poms and for just singing "five-nil! five-nil! five-nil! five-nil!".

So, the Swans buy Buddy Franklin in a "shock, audacious move".
Never mind the cries of moral outrage coming from the backs of high horses south of the border, where apparently the sky is falling in and it's the end of the world as we know it.
Wot?
It's well known the AFL gives the Swans an extra million dollars a year in salary cap for "living expenses", on account of Sydney is such an expensive place to live in [the fact that it's not - you can live very well here on the cheap - apart from outrageous housing costs - is another kettle of fish] so, what do the Swans do?
They go out and buy the best available player on the free market for a poultice, with a fair premium thrown in.
It'll cost 'em plenty.
And the Mexican clubs didn't see it coming?
Wot?
Don't give me that.
Then they have the utter cheek to cry foul when everyone knows full well the Swans have done everything by the book.
Funny that the non-Melbourne clubs aren't exactly screaming their heads off about it; they well remember how Sydney cleaned up the Tippett Scandal for them with a minimum loss of face.
Ironically, Tipsy Tippett would be spewing, just having been diddled out of a job.
Little point in having two half-to-full forwards, both with huge ego's that wouldn't fit through a normal doorway.
Mummy wasted no time in signing a three year deal with the GWS Pygmies the very same day, Jesse White has made his intentions very clear that he wants to go home to Melbourne, and poor ol' Sam Reid will take whatever he can get, that's if anyone will buy damaged goods.
They'll keep the Mad Canadian, The Ugliest Man in Football, and Spida Jnr occupied in the ruck, and as insurance policies, just in case Buddy is injured or suspended, again.
Clever stuff from the Swans who had the deal all sewn up months ago in complete and utter secrecy.
Obviously, the Melbourne spies aren't doing a very good job.
The "oh, I can't make a decision before I win the Premiership for Hawthorn" was a very convenient decoy, while the GWS bid for his services was the ideal red herring to drag across the path.
All very expensive smoke and mirrors.

the fat lady sings

Blud Bros,

While they may very well have been gallant in defeat, the Swans had no hope from the opening bounce - anyone could see that.
Wrestled out the game early and then monstered.
The Dockers should have been five goals in front at quarter time bar their nervous kicking, but got that far to the good at half time anyway, and realised they wouldn't be beaten and called it quits.
Game over at the long break, and Fremantle sensibly saved themseleves for the Big One, and pretty much stopped playing by the time they got to three-quarter time, safe in the knowledge that it was never in doubt.
Any impartial observer would have have seen it coming.
Swans kept on winning in the second half of the season despite having half the team in Sick Bay sitting about in hyperbaric chambers watching cartoons, so it was little wonder Sydney struggled all year against the other sides in the top four.
And you only have to look at the voting patterns among the Bamfords for the Chas. Brownlow , as strange as they are, to see that the Hannebery Kiddie and Son of Gary polled well early, but fell away in the arse end of the season.
Really, a miracle that Sydney got as deep into September as they did under the circumstances.
Mighty effort to back up that far as reigning premiers, having been written off by the Melbun fishwraps.
Noted that SC Horse got a bit emotional on interview after the game, and why not - he's never experienced decisive defeat in a finals series until now.
He'd put his heart and soul into it for another year, and came a cropper at the second last hurdle.
Little doubt he takes it personally.
At half time the bush telegraph in the corner of the lounge room chattered into life.
It was my spy at the ground.
Tore off the tickertape message that read "Assistant coaches on the phone confirming the flights to Florida".
Happen to know a rabid Dockers fan, a long time resident of The Golden West who has a pathological hatred of the West Coast Eagles; so you can imagine, after 19 years, the amount of cocking of the snoot that's been going on over there.
In gracious tones, he told me before the game, "don't take it too hard Craves, at least we'll save you the time and trouble of having to play Hawthorn again".
The commentariart on the telly kept banging on about how "we've never seen defence like this".
Poppycock.
They obviously weren't old enough to be at the 1987 VFL Grand Final - the one and only decider at The G to be graced with my presence.
Rolled up on the day on crutches with a mate who had his head swaddled in bandages on account of he'd just had a melanoma cut out of his forehead - we played the poor cripple act and soon had tickets to standing room that the scalper couldn't sell.
But that's another story.
If memory serves me right, Carlton's David Rhys-Jones won the Norm Smith Medal for closing down Robert DiPierdomenico.
Rhys-Jones hardly touched the ball all day, but every time Dipper came near the pill, he'd barrell him into the turf and spent the rest of the day annoying the shit out of him, thereby stopping Hawthorn's star play-maker from having any impact on the game whatsoever - and that was more than enough to be Best on Ground.
Now that's "defensive pressure".
The GLW shed a tear or two on the full-time siren - and who can blame her - but she said "I'm only upset for Jude".
She was his biggest fan.
Not so much that he played 300+ games or made the most tackles of anyone to play the caper, ever [now that's "defensive pressure"], she was captivated by the elegant style and grace of the way in which he played the game and generally conducted himself.
A genuine, dead-set ornament to the game.
With the Bolton family now fully in retirement, the chances of seeing the likes of that mob again would be rather slim, you would have thought.
A magnificent photograph attached of Jude on the hoist being carried off Subiaco Oval sedan chair-style, with Rhino Keefe weeping uncontrollably, while Odd Head's expression just says "he's farkin' heavy, but he's my brother".
On interview after the game, Bolton, J. was asked what he was feeling like after his last game, to which he replied...paraphrasing him..."I'm utterly rooted, the body is completely gorn, that's why I retired".
That reminded me of The Great Marty Mattner, who gave the game away mid-year to have an immediate hip replacement [both knees can wait a bit] so he doesn't spend his dotage in a wheelchair.
So who else?
Surely the Ugliest Man in Football, LRT, would be seriously considering retirement with the trot he's been having over the past couple of years.
There might be a couple of others doing the same, and what on earth do you think The Great Goodes Train is thinking.
Surely he wouldn't be able to battle his way through and survive another pre-season?
He may well have played his last game.
Doesn't strike me as sort of player who would go through the torture of having to train himself up again just to have a swan song, he's knows he's good, and is not much interested in adulation, but he's not afraid to speak out and tell you straight up what he thinks.
Problem is he doesn't know what he thinks about hanging up the boots at the moment.
Rhino is a prime candidate for the Jason Recliner and Rick Shaw is seriously getting on in years.
So they will have to buy and draft wisely to keep the rythmn of yoof & experience going.
Tipsy is a work in progress - and will probably be for his entire career - and they'll likely trade Sam Reid as a crock for another used tall in a bargain basement bundle with a couple of others, and they will delist a few youngsters to make them free agents.
The Football Dept won't make mistakes there.
The Youngest described the Swans as having "an elegant season".
The Grand Final will be anything but elegant; a very dour, low-scoring, tackle-a-thon that won't be pretty to watch.
Might do something else.
Relectantly, sheepishly, poked my head through the front door of the Front Bar down at The Local on Mad Monday.
Found the Philosopher in his usual corner nursing a brandy, lime & soda, still reading Sunday's paper.
He picked up a keno pencil and circled FREMANTLE DOCKERS in the score box, poked at it with his bony finger, and said "now they've got history with Sydney, there's always next year".
And left it at that.
The Fat Lady has sung.
That's all she wrote.
So, what's more to say?
Cheer, cheer.

FREMANTLE: 2.9, 7.11, 11.12, 14.15 (99). Goals: Walters 3, Pavlich 2, Fyfe 2, Suban 2, Crowley, Duffield, Neale, Barlow, Ballantyne.
SYDNEY: 2.1, 2.2, 5.5, 11.8 (74). Goals: Rohan 2, Cunningham 2, Jetta, Parker, Bolton, McGlynn, Pyke, McVeigh, Hannebery.
At Subicao Oval.
Crowd: 43,249

And so endeth another season of the Winter Game wire - now into its 7th year on the net [the first two years are lost in the mists of time].
It's been fun.
Thanks for all the suggestions, comments, corrections, drunking ramblings, and downright abuse over the course of proceedings.
Now we move on.
The Summer Game will be upon us sooner than we think, so you can only dream of grinding Poms into the dust.