the bloke who was running away from it

Lounge Lizards,

The Marathon?
Run only because it happened, once, back in the day - September 12, 490 BC.
Marathon?
Some run-down good-for-nothing of a town that just happened to be of critical strategic military importance on the day, when a couple of mobs in disagreement had a helluva toe-to-toe ding-dong brawl over it, by all accounts.
And at the start, it was the bloke who was running away from it, and was praying all the time to what ever God was his, that he'd never have to do it again, ever.
Yet, people still do.
Very hard to find anything more old-fashioned at The Games.
But why 26 miles 385 yards?
When, although no-one has ever quite bothered to get the tape measure out, the road distance between modern day Marathon and Athens is about 25 miles, more or less, in the old money.
In a state of exhaustion from too much sport is barely enough, found myself late at night slumped on the lounge being sucked into the vortex that is Women's Marathon.
In Australian Rules you often hear the commentators say "and it's a perfect day for football" - you never hear anyone saying "and it's a perfect day for a Marathon".
Hot, humid, no breeze to speak of and not a cloud in the sky is never perfect for anything, let alone a brisk stroll in the park.
That said, the lady from Kenya, Jemima Jelegat Sumgong, ran a perfect tactical race under the conditions, and knew it; saying gold was hers in her own head once she passed the 40km signpost from where she came from.
"I knew I was on the way to history.”
She knew all day the others would fade away, one-by-one, struggling in agony every inch of the way, with wildly different contortions of extreme pain and dreadful suffering written all over their faces.
In a race where there is no mercy, they all looked like they were in desperate need of urgent drug treatment; please, just a pinch of some of that Colombian Marching Powder, just to keep me going to the finish of it all, please, just please.
After plodding along brilliantly for all of two hours twenty four minutes and four seconds, Ms Sumgong won by a mere nine seconds - but she knew that was enough, she knew she would win - it was never in doubt.
She knew it might as well be daylight between her and silver, the margin back to second never counts, despite the appearance of it being a close run thing.
From the get go - a classic war of attrition - at its finest.
Good to watch

the Strayan Captain and the Marathon sex Session

Voyuers,

What's not to love about Anna Meares, the Strayan Captain and Flag Bearer?
She's old, tired, heavy in the legs and yet she still manages to win bronze! bronze for Straya! bronze!
To add to her already mightily impressive trophy cabinet
Four consecutive Olympic Games appearances is a grand achievement in anyone's language, all the more so in the super-competitive game of cycling.
They might as well have invented the derny just for her.
And she admits she didn't have to do Rio, she just wanted to, because she knew she could.
And despite her being famous from sea-to-shining-sea, she remains the epitome of humbleness, blessed that she was able to do it all, and proud to win for her country, not just for her alone.
Plus, while the shot putters and discus throwers would give her a run for her money, dear Anna must have the biggest bargearse in all the Strayan team.
Those big legs, those tight skirts -- just drive me right outta of my mind.

Speaking of which, ever since Melbourne invented the Athlete's Village back in '56 there's been all sorts of unspeakable hanky-panky going on in there.
Believe it.
The combination of adrenalin, testosterone, estrogen, booze, cocktails of powerful pharmaceuticals, and plenty of time on their hands, is bound to produce wild and crazy scenes beyond the imagination.
Did like the story of the Brazilian women's synchronised diving duo finding themselves in an acrimonious split over one of them, Ingrid Oliveiram, being involved in a "marathon sex session" with a male Brazilian canoeist.
The other one, Giovanna Pedroso - obviously insanely jealous of the other [according to the local gossip columns] - just couldn't handle it as she was told in no uncertain terms to leave their share room so Ingrid could get jiggy with it with Pedro Goncalves.
At least the rooter/rootee offenders kept it orderly and "in-house", and there was no cross-border fertilisation.
Hero's, both of them, in the Rio press.
The biggest scandal for mine, was that all this whoopee and living the dream happened the night before the pair were due to compete.
Outrageous.
Still, that never stopped Bob Beamon jumping out of his skin to the tune of 29ft 2½in back in '68 in Mexico City.
Needless to say with one of the girls on the work bench all night, and the other one as miffed as; they came stone motherless last in the synchronised 10m platform final.
Gold.

where all the money went out the back door without so much as a sausage

Would be freeloaders,

I'm calling it.
As The Games draw to a close, there must surely be a Royal Commission into what went wrong and where all the money went.
Tom Hughes QC, Counsel Assisting and Kitty Chiller as the star witness.
She'll be endlessly cross-examined about the wildly over-optimistic predictions on where Straya finished on the all-important Medal Tally.
"I put it too you, Ms Chiller, that Australia is a small fish in a very big pond, and yet, after over a century of trying to grow into a nice plate-sized one, and the vast amount of treasure spent in the pursuit, Australians still don't get it. Do you agree with that proposition?"
"Yes"
"In that case, do you believe Australia was - to use the vernacular -'punching above its weight' at the recent Games in Rio?"
"No"
That sort of thing.
Oh, did I mention money?
Forget Citius, Altius, Fortius.
As a news reporter covering Sydney 2000, I saw first hand and up close the astonishing graft, greed, corruption, magnificent riches wasted, and the exceptionally lavish fully-funded lifestyles enjoyed, maintained, and closely guarded by the 98 Members of the IOC.
In 2000, they ate their way through Australia's entire annual production of saffron in a fortnight.
The Gravy Train to end all gravy train's.
They think and live like they are royalty, entitled to endless entitlement [you only stop being an IOC Member on the day you die], and behave as if the sun shines out of their collective dirty arseholes, while everyone around them bows & scrapes.
So they are first class role models, always have been, when it comes to frittering away mountains of cash, no cheques please.
The Australian Sports Comission freely admits that we, that is, you and me, have spent no less than $376.7 MILLION on "high-performance" Olympic sports programs since London.
That's a helluva lot of pineapples thrown at it, with barely a brass razoo to show for it.
The Royal Commission will be onto the fact that the "amateur" athletes themselves saw very little of the brown paper bags stuffed with greenbacks.
They'll be imagining a scenario where all the coaches, trainers, physio's, witch-doctors, nurses, orthopaedic surgeons, massuers, cupping experts, sports psychologists & trick cyclists, performance algorithm crunchers, dieticians, acupuncturists, not to mention drug-peddlars, and the myriad of other hangers-on with grand titles, getting together in a meeting room somwhere in Canberra, and the Chairman saying to the meeting "now, we've got all this free money from the Government, so what should we do with it? Do we spend it on sets and costumes? Or pay ourselves handsomely?"
To which comes the deafening reply "PAY OURSELVES HANDSOMELY!!"

My Spy at The Ground in Rio, while fond of the non-Olympic sports of real football and cricket, is also a basketball nut and was scathing in his opinion of the sheer arrogance of the Opals [who were meant to have a saloon passage through to the gold medal match v USA, weren't they?], but, who like almost all of the other team sports' Strayan teams, went out in the quarter-finals or worse [in the "professional" as buggery Opals case, to Serbia. WTF?] and thus get shoved out the back door and sent home without so much as a sausage.
I have barely seen a frame of the yachting on the Ch7 coverage, but it is the sailor boys and girls who can always be relied upon to bring home the bacon late in the second week, to make the scoreboard look barely respectable.
Go figure.
Think Sydney.
I could go on, but I'll let the Bush Telegraph in the corner of the loungeroom do the talkin', for once:

*The too precious - Golfers and Tennis players who are too good to even go to the Games.
*The reckless idiots - Judo players who forget to build an attack on substance.
*The sugar-loaded dreamers - Rowers who turn up on a wild card and want us to believe they’re ready.
*The over-confident - with beliefs built on hope not results - Soccer players who believe miracles happen twice within one minute of each other.
*The spoilt brats – gymnasts and divers who have always been told they’re wonderful and Mummy gives them a 10 every time.
*The get rich quick mob – the whole damn lot of ‘em living it up on the sweat of workers without a care or threat of punishment when they fail.

My Spy is cynical & cranky, but has plenty of respect for the long-suffering taxpayer, with good reason.
It's been such fun and it aint over yet, but I'm through with commentary on these Games - the best ever, as they always are - same, same, only different - sayōnara Rio de Janiero.
I'll be seeing you all in Tokyo in 2020, where you'll find me heading straight out to the skateboard park.
And as always, remember that if you are not enjoying yourself, then it's probably your own fault.
Tally Ho!
Toot! Toot!

not usually in the bailiwick

Not usually in the bailiwick of this blog-blog-bogitty-blog, but here goes anyway.
Some scribblings from Crazy Craves during the recent Olympic Games in Rio de Janeiro.

beneath my dignity

Armchair critics,

People have been asking me why one of my footy blogs hasn't appeared on the subject of Balmain coach Jason "Squeak" Taylor's gob-smackingly appalling treatment of one of the true legends and ornaments of the game and the second-last survivor of the "Magnificent Thirteen" who won the Premiership in '05 - Robbie Farah, aka The Best Leb in The Game - who, it goes without saying, is a scholar and a gentleman beyond reproach.
While folk are well aware that my position on the imbroglio is abundantly clear, they are saying they would like me to explore the issue further employing some of my trademark colourful language.
Decided that to write such a blog post regarding JT would be beneath my dignity, and there is also the fear that if my opinion was put into the public domain, there is the possibilty of being hauled before the Defamation Division of the Supreme Court of New South Wales where my senior counsel would be asked to explain to the court the precise legal definition of my reference to Mr Taylor using the phrase "a two-faced, lilly-livered, 24-carat, card-carrying-cunt", under the Common Law.
Trust you will accept my explanation.

The Inglorious Bamfords

Reformed Highway Robbers,

If ever there was a worse display of umpiring in recent history than in last Thursday's match between the Swans and Hawthorn, please let me know.
Swans were robbed blind; plain and simple.
What an absolutely appalling effort on the part of officialdom.
Chris Donlan, Luke Farmer, Shaun Ryan - we know who you are.
The Inglorious Bamfords.
Yet again, the whole shebang, shat me to tears.
The Stats Guru, who knows of these things, reminds me that not a single free kick was paid to the Swans in the second quarter of the match -- which turned out to be the pivot on which the game turned - and while the umpires tried in vain to switch-on late, the free kicks tally still finished at an unbelievable 15-9 in favour of the away side.
Sydney could not buy a free kick, getting just 4 to three-quarter time, compared to the Hawks 13, which were mainly in front of the big sticks.
Outrageous.
What's more, the Hawks were trying every trick in the book to bend, bust or just break the rules as much as they possibly could, and that didn't stop short of plain deception by having players running around in ever decreasing circles like chooks with their heads cut off, or just acting the goat, in what turned out to be a very successful bid to distract the attention-deficient umpires from their appointed task.
Oh no siree!
Hawthorn was putting it all on - head high tackles, illegal shirt-fronts, Squirrel Grips, Christmas Holds, out-and-out scragging, holding the man left, right, and centre, tripping, scratching, stomping, blatant pushes in the back, knees and elbows all over the shop in the scrimmages - the full range of filth - but they'd read the rule book don't you worry about that, and were smugly contented to get away with blue murder.
In a game chock full of niggle, it's a wonder there wasn't an all-in brawl.
Often wondered why there has never been a send-off rule for Unconscionable Conduct or repeated professional fouls in Australian Rules, as there is in just about every other code of football known to man.
Just as a shocking example, whenever Lance Franklin went anywhere near the ball, Hawthorn flooded the Swans forward lines and had about about five blokes on him, all tugging at his balls and trying to illegally hold him back to stop him from taking a trademark speccy.
And they succeeded beyond their expectations, all without any sanction whatsoever from the umpires, who in fact helped them out whenever they could.
Buddy went without a single goal.
Astounding.
Even Super Coach Horse, under the threat of a heavy fine, made some thinly veiled not terribly favourable comments about the standard of umpiring in the post match press conference, before going outside and shoving his head in a bucket of cold water to stop the steam coming out of his ears.
Suggested to My Spy at The Ground that the Bamfords should be lined up against a wall and shot at dawn the day after the Swans win the Grand Final, but he reckoned by short succinct message from a super-jampacked SCG to the bush telegraph machine in the corner of my loungeroom "shootin's too good for 'em".
Still, against these odds, the Swans have only suffered one woeful flogging [which most unfortunately was graced by my presence] in the entire season, with six games to go.
Adelaide 10pts.
Richmond 1pt.
GWS 42pts.
W.Bulldogs 4pts.
Hawthorn 5pts.
There are some fish that got away there no doubt, most notably the serial losers at Richmond, but the Swans are still sweetly placed in equal third...and under the Hare-Clarke-McIntyre-Duckworth-Lewis AFL finals system, the last thing you want to do is go top.
You are much better off finishing second or fourth, still getting the second bite at the cherry, and tossing a coin for all it matters for a home game.
The ducks & drakes starts now.
Throwing matches won't be uncommon.
Note from the team lists in the 'not playing after last week' box, Heeney the Cardiff Zuccini was "managed" out of the side a couple of weeks ago.
The strange looking pretty boy with the sea anenome on his head looked rather bashed up, but it appears you now no longer have to go through the charade of having "foot soreness" to take a breather for a couple of weeks - you can now just be "managed" in and out at the stroke of a coach's pen, and the AFL no longer seems to mind that yr not playing yr strongest team right through to the very end of the minor Premiership.
On that form in that game, Sydney and Hawthorn are the obvious grand finalists; Adelaide really being the only rival for The Flag, given they are due for a loss, and the Crows, like the Swans, have a saloon passage through to September.
The Pygmies will give it a red hot go, and good on 'em, we have soft spots in this western Sydney household for that old lunatic hard-nut Stevie J, and the Toby Greene kiddie, who can play.
The other teams currently in the top eight are too flaky for mine, and won't take to the blowtorch to belly treatment very well.
After missing the finals last year under unforseen unfortunate circumstances, Lance Franklin has a long memory, knows about atonement, and is leasuirely taking the whole season to warm up nicely; could win the Coleman Medal by and by, just because he knows he's No.1.
The is no man in the whole comp who wants to win the premiership more.
Watch him go "bang!" when the opening whistle sounds in the first prelim.
Bugger the Bamfords.
Buddy's victims will feel very sore and sorry for themselves as he boots a bagful.
Mark my words.
Enough said.

Meantime, over at the workingman's game, rugby league, The Mighty Tiges have rocketed up the 16-rung ladder from 12th to 11th on the back of the two premiership points guaranteed for just going and having Sunday lunch with your mum during the second bye weekend.
Let's face it...be a man about it - they are struggling up Shit Creek with the paddles floating downstream somewhere nearby - despite being a million dollars on paper.
Said it before, say it again.
The Coach Jason "Squeak" Taylor v Robbie Farah long-weeping sore for some entirely unknown reason has still been left to fester...so while the Best Leb in The Game was the starting hooker for NSW in all three games in the just concluded State-of-Origin series [QLD 2-1]; he can't get a full game and starts off the bench for Balmain, and yet never has a bad game at dummy-half.
And worst of all, why the contretemps?
Go figure.
The Balmain/Western Suburbs RLFC board of directors remains a dysfunctional shambles, who won't sack the coach at this late stage.
They also have the best full-back in the game, and possibly the half-back/five-eighth combo also, mercurial wingers and a workmanlike bunch of forwards, and yet find themselves completely nowhere.
WTF?
As the Stats Guru whirs the ababcus to find try to find out how on earth they can make the top eight, he rationally explains it's simply because the Tiges have been the very model of inconsistency this season:
WWLLLWLLWLWLLWBLWLB.
Apart from the season opening promise, they have never been able to string two wins together all winter.
To mix a metaphor, the conundrum in a kernel.
For eleven long years now; a difficult team to follow.
As The Philosopher would say "Lord, help us."

"I have always loved property"

Struggle Streeters,

It is my melancholy duty to report that my greatest hero in world cricket in the modern era, MJ Clarke, is negatively geared to fuck.
You heard me right.
And that finds me somewhat conflicted, or more probably, naive.
Pup has been fine tuning his skills in his potential new career in motivational speaking, talking to real estate agents again, this time in Sydney.
My Spy at The Ground reckons the great man began his keynote address with the simple five-word introduction "I have always loved property"
Michael revealed that since the age of 21, he has sunk 75% of his not insubstantial after-tax income into real property.
That's a helluva lot of pineapples when you do the sums.
He reminded the agents that he was forever mindful of the old maxim of location, location, location, and always "purchased property close to sporting facilities, public transport and shopping centres".
But, he played it smart and cagey, saying how many Gloria Soames he has on his books and actually owns outright, is for him to know and for you to find out.
However, Pup had no hesitation in slapping down $1.38M on a three-level four bedroom townhouse off-the-plan at the new development at Lake Macquarie [near Newcastle, of all places] called Trinity Point, which is to feature 189 residential land lots, 250 apartments and a five star 65 room Pullman Hotel.
A negative gearer's wet dream.
On interview after the real estate conference, Pup described Trinity Point as having the potential to be "the new Palm Beach, it is so close to Sydney".
Asked what he was going to do with his new pile up there, he replied "Kyly and I will probably use it as a holiday house".
Nice work if you can get it.
And the best of British luck to him.
Who wouldn't give their right arm to be a rentier?
Just a shame he had to take full advantage of that "rare gift from the Government" aka negative gearing, and then just sit back and watch capital gain and compound interest tee off.
Sweet.
For some.
Always wondered why his team-mates referred to him by the nick-name "Moneybats" Clarke; just thought it had something to do with his extensive list of prestige endorsements [admittedly spruiking Oral B toothpaste was a mistake], but now everybody knows different.
Speaking of real estate, suddenly had a random echo of that feeling that you have when you are tripping, when my attention was drawn to the fact that Clarkey's Southern Highlands' 240 acre farm and homestead, which he can't sell for love nor money, is now a holiday rental at $1200 a night for use of the entire property.
Oh my Lordy, a Clarkey fan's Christmases come all at once
Found myself having wild fantasies about getting the old gang back together and renting the joint out for the weekend [the place sleeps 15], having a game of six-a-side on the beautifully maintained cricket oval, plundering the wine cellar, lovingly fondling the silverware in the trophy cabinet, having a hit or two on the lawn tennis court followed by a plunge into the pool and spa, knocking around balls on the billiards table and generally revelling in the genteel ambience of the country-style mansion.
At one stage even dreamed we could do some 'shrooms and sleep with all the memoriabilia and write the beat poem "The Night I Fucked Michael Clarke" in adoration the morning after, while the psilocybin was still coursing through our veins.
You know what they say about Paradise...it's just a matter of what is it? where is it? how do you get there?
And when you do, naturally, you go completely off the hook.
Meantime, on the actual cricket comeback front foot:
It was a pity that Pup travelled all the way to Hong Kong to play in the world-class Hong Kong T20 Blast, or whatever it was called, only to find that the bulk of the tournament was washed out by early monsoon rains, and the players were forced to flee to the Hong Kong Cricket Association pavilion for endless trays of gin'n'tonics and canapes for days on end as heavens opened.
The Stats Guru - always keen for completion in his vast archive - gave me a ring mid-week drawing my attention to a headline that read "New South Wales refuses to include Michael Clarke for 2016-27 Season" to ask if he could now rule a line under MJ Clarke's stellar, incomparable first-class career?
Turns out the story was a classic beat up, turning as it did on a quote from an obscure offical at Cricket NSW, who, when asked, made an aside of a remark along the lines of "no, Michael isn't in our plans for next summer".
When the press getta hold of it, that turns into "refuses".
The story also went on to detail how Pup was "in talks" with the two Sydney Big Bash T20 franchises viz a viz next season, based on a quote from another obscure official from the Sixer's who said "yeah, we talked to Michael a while ago now, but it's a very long off-season and we only have a couple of spots left on our roster, so there is no rush to make any decisions at the moment, as we are currently planning to work with the squad that we have".
That could be convoluted code for "don't want him, either".
So MJ Clarke's professional playing days, after an interminable comeback, could finally end where it all began - with one first grade game for Western Suburbs.
At last it might have finally dawned on the legend that cricket is a cruel game, and when yr gorn, yr gorn.
After being to the top of the mountain, what else has the man left to achieve anyway?
So there you go.
The ordinary bloke from the 'burbs, the Bankstown Boy, turns full circle.
Sweet.
For some.