treated like offal

My Fellow Bewilderee's,

It's very distressing when you hear a little birdie singing that MJ Clarke and The Board have fallen out.
You might as well make a serrano ham out of it.
It just begs the question, doesn't it?
Why?
It's difficult to believe, as some would have it, that Pup has gone out of his way to piss off everyone that matters in the last month or so.
Difficult.
Why is the Australian Captain being hounded out of the game?
Please, please, does anyone have a credible explanation?
Here's a bloke, who after a slow and sloppy start to his career on and off the field all those years ago, went on to Captain his country most admirably in how many goddam test matches, scored a stack of tons that will go down in fookin' history and will be remembered long after he's gone, averages 50+ and made a million runs to boot.
The Stats Guru has twisted his hair into dreadlocks while pondering the conundrum and then pulled them all out in the ensuing imbroglio.
Sure, Smiffy is the next Captain, he knows it, everbody knows...
SPD Smith is the skipper with "the form guide in his back pocket" while Pup does tend to ride his high horse, to which he is entitled, surely?
What's the diff?
Just ask that consumate arsehole, Bradman, he'll tell you.
Is Michael's private life still being held against him?
Has anyone got any pictures of him lately?
By all accounts he's a happily married man who should get out more.
Or, and here's the rub, are they telling him "yr old, yr crippled, yr tired, and you really should retire gracefully at age 33. Crikey. You made a hundred in yr last test match. Isn't that a good enough farewell for you?"
It's got me beat.
Apart from being injury prone, what has MJ Clarke done wrong in the last little while?
Didn't Clarkey display an uncommon diginity around the Phillip Hughes saga, behaving in an absolutely impeccable manner throughout?
And, it seems, he gets no credit for it, even as they try to push him out the back door with not so much as a sausage.
If you were being treated like offal, you'd be upset, as well.
All for a pissy one-day tournament, for gawd's sake.
The Board made the fatal mistake of putting a date - Feb 21 - in the diary.
Certainly hope they've got the full face masks and eye protectors in the office.
They'll need them for when the merde hits the windmill that day; nothing surer.
Light the blue touch paper and stand well clear.

the complete kit of hand tools

Artisans,

At the Sydney Test match this year, they had a few Indian Chappies out of the back of The Members near the nets, making cricket bats.
The full workshop inside a small tent.
All the motors and lathes and grinders, and the complete kit of hand tools, planes, fine shavers, little chisels, frightening swords, Ghurka knives, that sort of thing.
Channel Nine filmed MJ Clarke down there at what looked like a bit of a distance with poor sound; don't know if it was a hastily cobbled together ruse, or if it was something in passing and he really didn't know the camera was there.
Probably the former.
In any case, Pup, dressed in an immaculately cut blue suit and tie that looked Italian, so fitted him like a glove, was chatting to one of the bat makers and doing this machine gun rapid stream of conciousness thing while gesticulating:
"Now look, see here? This is what I want. [points out with thumb and forefinger that the bat can't be anymore than four-and-a-quarter inches wide]. That's all good up and down there, but I like the shoulders a bit lower than that, and they have to be shaved off there, curved off a longer than usual bat handle, you know what I mean? and here, I'm a right hander, so I need the right hand edge here to be shaved in a little in comparison to the left edge, and here, see on the spine of the bat [turns the bat over and turns it upside down], what I need is all the weight of the bat, right here, just get it all up in here".
From time to time the Indian Chappie would interject with "no Sir! yes Sir! three bags full Sir!"
Clarkey, as always, was looking for the "sweet spot".
Later in the match, after Warner had lent one of his favourite bats to Harris to go the tonk, all the old blokes in the telly commentary said "why on earth would you lend your favourite bat to someone else?".
Obviously Pup knew different "Davey couldn't care. He always has two or three on the go, because he doesn't want to get too comfortable with one, or have a favourite bat, in case it breaks"
Smiffy must be thinking the fairytale honeymoon can't be true.
He would've never imagined in his wildest dreams that he would score four first innings tons on the trot batting at four or five, let alone three of them as a new skipper, to stand alone as the first and only to do so.
Never mind the six-lane highways they were scored on, lovingly prepared, as they were, by friendly curators.
Not his fault - thanks for coming!
Some might quibble with the inexperienced tactics and field placings on the last day in Sydney, but hey, the bloke's young and new to the leadership caper.
2-0 will do.
He can only go on what he's been shown and told.
All the while the fielding coach - surely they'd have one - would've be driven mad by the number of dropped catches.
He's probably in the lunatic asylum drugged out of his mind dreaming that if only they'd just held them all, they would have gone 4-0 up, easy.
You know what they say about catches and winning matches.
As always, what could of have been, and all bets off.
The Stats Guru has had the abacus whirring for a while now, and even he can't keep up with the records, so much so he slumped exhausted in his beanbag and sighed "Oh, Joisus! A lot of blokes went large"
Wandered into the Front Bar at The Local on Saturday afternoon and found the Brown Bros carrying on in a grand fashion; some of them were even barracking for the Strayans.
Most unusual.
Asked them why?
They pointed out their mob of Kiwis had just beaten Ceylon 2-0 while no one was noticing, and all the bats went large..."see you next year, eh? bru!"
Couldn't refuse a middie out of their jugs of beer; and they know their cricket.
Everyone's a winner, baby...

four captains on the Gravy train

Gourmands,

Did note that Pup was used sparingly on the Channel Nine Commentary Team, in his television debut.
You'd imagine that it'd be a bit difficult, as a current player allegedly in rehab, to commentate on other current players, so he was used as some kind of analyst - there's no doubt MJ Clarke has a large cricket brain, and he has learned to speak media speak very well.
The bloke has probably got a future in it.
Found myself spending whole days, weeks, months, nay years, as a cub sports journalist lounging around sports grounds in my early professional career, and it wasn't very hard.
Far from it.
Pup will soon work out that it's an easy living.
Discovered from the get go, much to my astonishment, that a free lunch at someone else's expense was pretty much available in some part of the ground, no matter what ground, or what game was being played.
And it was tip top.
It had a name.
The Gravy Train.
Toot! Toot!
With the right sort of media pass you can get yourself into all sorts of places that you really shouldn't have been in, but hey, it was all off the record.
So not that too surprised or dismayed on hearing SK Warne on the telly recounting the fact that he was responsible for the creation of the spaghetti bolognaise pizza at his local pizza a bar just around the corner from his place.
You heard right, a pot of spag bol dumped on a "dirty rotten" pizza dough, doused in cheese and tomato sauce, and then baked, baked good.
Michael Clarke, who just happened to be in the same pizza bar with Shane this week, was sceptical at first, according to Warney "Pup said, 'oh come on Warney, you're giving me a gee up here'".
But no, Pup smashed a few slices of SB Pizza with gusto, and pronounced it good.
Mr Warne said they went down a treat with "a few frothies".
As far as rehab goes, Pup, that's the end of the section right there - yr mate has turned you over and dobbed you in.
In the meantime, back at the ball park baby, Smiffy is going from strength to strength, scoring a crucial century and a half and then some that gave him the whip hand throughout the course of the five days.
Some pundits say his handling of the last day didn't reflect very well on his captaincy, which is plainly bullshit, for mine.
With the mighty time-honoured Border-Gavaskar Trophy on the line, SPD Smith was perfectly within his rights to play for the draw, and win back the godawful thing, there and then.
It was only fitting that MS Dhoni fell on his sword and was then hoisted on his own petard.
Good on him for just admitting that he'd simply lost it.
No point in going on.
The BCCI gave him an offcial Au Reviour via press release, and thanked him for "bringing laurels to India".
They were probably refering to World Cups and stuff, not the series he'd just lost
The Stats Guru says there's not too many other blokes who've scored nine tons in ODI's and six centuries in Tests, going large and making all those hundreds at home, all of them, nowhere else.
The potty-mouthed Kohli Kiddie has some big millionaire shoes to fill.
MS likes motorcyles, and he owns a lot of them, so enjoy, and Goodluck Jonathon to you in retirement.
Getting a bit off topic here, so back to the free lunch.
Burgers, schnitty's, fried potatoes, buns, creamy salads, you could almost always find a roast [with baked ham a particular favourite], and you might get lucky with a beef stroganoff.
On the best buffet's you could get shellfish; in the run up to Sydney 2000 the prawns were the size of yr elbow and smashing a dozen oysters while no one was looking became an art form.
But that's another story.
Also seem to remember that if you knew where to look there would be a generally pretty good vindaloo of some description on offer, almost always with fried rice, strangely enough..
The next test match at Sydney will be a different bottle of mussels altogether compared to Melbourne.
Rather than appearing on the telly, MJ Clarke should just content himself with a long lunch in the SCG Members Dining Room, every day for nigh on a week.
Throw in a couple of breakfasts as well, and who would blame him?
He should do some stretching and limbering up before he tackles the entree and a cheeky glass of Chablis...

the Cricket Australia Twilight Lounge

Jason Recliners,

You can just imagine Pup in rehab.
He'd be stretched out on the banana lounge by the mill pond infinity pool at home, surely?
Beautiful women with certificates in physiotherapy would be working on both hammys while swabbing his surgical wounds, as an exotic four-and-a-half foot female of slight frame would be walking back and forth on his Shagger's Back, with the cricket on the radio in the background.
Wouldn't have it any other way.
He'd be sipping on an iced tea with a scant slice of lemon and a cocktail umbrella in it given the ban on consuming alcohol while injured, which may, or may not, include the five o'clock dry martini.
At least The Board took my advice and installed SPD Smith as Captain forthwith, without much ceremony, apart from being cloaked by Tubby.
No one ever really doubted that The Baby Faced Killer would come up with a Captain's Knock when it was needed the most.
Fairy tales do come true; win the match on the back of you going large in yr debut game as skippy.
Did like the baptism of fire at the start, when Smiffy was sent into the field on the hottest day for cricket in Brisbane in living memory.
Something's going on.
Reminded me of playing in a social match as a specialist No.11 one time at the Burnside Rugby Union Club ground nigh on 35 years ago, which was rated all round as a genuine scorcher.
The thermometer under the clubhouse next to the water tank stand read 41.8 degrees celsius at one stage during the afternoon, and the farenheit side on the thing just said "Farkin' Hot".
There was a convenient large gum tree at one end of the ground that threw a shadow over the playing arena - blokes fought with each other to field at third man down there when it came time to change ends.
One of them got there at some critical stage in the match, went troppo, leapt the white picket fence, made a bed for himself out of twigs, branches and leaves, and promptly went to sleep.
You'd never believe it happened if you hadn't seen it with yr own eyes.
Drinks breaks were taken in the rugby clubhouse every twenty minutes, which consisted of a pint of lemon squash and ice and a pint of cold beer off the tap for each man.
The Umpires, sensibly, wore ridiculously large sombreros, with brims so wide that the bowlers had to run around them to deliver the ball.
The strange thing about it was that despite the trying conditions, the match was very hard fought with disputed calls galore - the Bamfords were busy - and it turned out to be a close run thing in the end.
If memory serves me right, the radio station team was beaten by the rugby club team by a handful of runs in the denoument.
Over drinks after the game someone managed to be sober enough to work out how to switch on the airconditioning at the fuse box, so everyone cooled off, and to a man, vowed that they would never play in anything remotely like that ever again.
And never did.
Smiffy got to the point on his inaugral day in charge when he found himself with no serviceable bowlers left in the tortuous conditions; just carried on regardless, knowing that test matches go on for a long time, under all circumstances.
Cruel heat? What heat? Crisis? What crisis?
Harden up.
You'd reckon that Pup would have had a wry smile on his face and given the new bloke a nod - neatly usurped by a 25 year old - as he contemplates retirement and the comforts and delights of the Cricket Australia Twilight Lounge.

a shot bird by his own admission

Canine Fanciers,

At long long long last MJ Clarke finally gets the respect from the general public that he so richly deserves but thought he had waited in vain for, for all these years...
And what did it take?
The death of a mate.
On the field of battle, if that's not putting too fine a point on it.
Suddenly, everything is changed and different.
Unintended consequences galore.
Here's a bloke who got a standing ovation coming into bat at Adelaide; something he would NEVER have got a fortnight ago, when the selectors were on the verge of dropping him over some terrible misunderstanding about fitness regime or something or another.
Of course, MJ Clarke and the Hughes family conducted themselves with admirable dignity during the terrible state of affairs, much to their credit.
And just after it came time to bring in your bat from the front porch at the start of the hastily cobbled together first test match, the Captain goes down in a screaming heap, after putting on a very well made half century.
Everyone feared that he would forever go down in the scorebook at 60 retired hurt, and that would be that.
From the time he picked up a chronic case of Shagger's Back when he was just 19 years old he knew that he'd gone too long and too hard on the workbench.
And who can blame him with the lie downs he's had?
But no.
Not happy with that; so having crashed, decided to crash through and make his hundred - bugger the agonising pain - and in the process managed to elevate himself to somewhere near national hero status.
That's the enchanting thing about Test cricket - you can go from day one wailing and gnashing of teeth, to second day heroics.
A "Captain's Knock" in the finest sense of the phrase, and everyone in the ground, nay the country, knew it.
And then late in the proceedings on Day Five he does the other hammy a mischief and declares on the wireless "I'm farked. Gorn for the season" or words to that effect.
As my Spy at the Ground telegraphed through "how many times do we have to witness the death and resurrection of Michael Clarke in this match?"
No need to worry, now.
Pup is a shot bird by his own admission.
"I may never play cricket again".
Keeping wickets is no place to run the game from, so have a Board Meeting and tell the Chairman and the Three Wise Men to appoint SPD Smith as Captain forthwith, and be done with it.
By all accounts the Baby Faced Killer is up to the task, and is currently on fire in all departments to boot.
MJ Clarke will retire in the knowledge that he had to earn respect the hard way, but in the denoument, at the seeming death of his career, he got it in spades.
Never mind the tragedy heaped upon tragedy.
Just like Glenn McGrath, who filled his boots at Lord's and deserves a bronze bust at the Grace Gates, MJ Clarke similarly deserves the same treament at the Vic Richardson Gates - who else is going to make five tons and two double tons at the ground in the near future??
Doubt we'll see it again in our lifetimes.
Just ask the Stats Guru, he'll tell you all about it.
He's had the abacus whirring.
In any case, the Guru's charged with using his authority to write to the Secretary's of the relevant Clubs, demanding that the statues be erected.
Goodluck Jonathan, with that.
Retired hurt be buggered, Pup thought, until he found as he struggled off the Oval for what will be most certainly be the very last time, that the future was behind him and the past was catching up.
A frightful sight to go out limping, not once, but twice, then, forever.
Final demise is no small thing, but, at 33, Clarkey knows what's shakin'.
Relinquishing the Captaincy won't be easy, but at least he'll be able to dine out in Adelaide forever on his record.

the front porch at Crazy Craves' run-down gaff

Vale PJ Hughes.
26 Test matches, three centuries, youngest ever to score two hundreds in the same game, average 32.65
A very close friend of MJ Clarke.
There'd be very few people alive today who remember Archie Jackson.
The front porch at Craves' run-down gaff.

the likelihood of it all going to merde in Brisbane

Canine Fanciers,

Pup, Pup, Pup!
What's shakin'?
What is going on?
Oh my dear Lordy Joisus.
Not the ol' hammy?
Tell me it isn't so, Joe.
How many years ago is it now that MJ Clarke retired from Twenty20 cricket on account of he was never really any good at it and so couldn't be bothered, and handed the short form captaincy to George "Bill" Bailey?
Why, oh why, didn't he retire from the 50/50 game at the same time?
Really, who remembers the great feats in one day cricket?
No one cares about it anymore, if they ever did - there's probably more silent interest in the Sheffield Shield - given it's the nursery for the only game that matters.
Only truly magnificent performances in test cricket can be re-called at will, especially if you happened to be at the ground at the time.
Everyone knows what it means to be your country's Captain, Pup, never mind the purists.
At age 33 and with a lifelong dose of chronic Shaggers Back to add to his woes, it's long overdue that the skipper reserved himself enirely for test cricket.
In truth, he's only got a couple more years at the top, at best, and that's if he's lucky.
Aggravating old injuries won't help.
At least he doesn't have old girlfriends on the lurk anymore.
There's plenty of other things to distract him, such as the likelihood of it all going to merde in Brisbane without him.
You'd want to give yourself the chance of making one more hundred at Lords, wouldn't you?
And Clarkey would want to win the Ashes next year before he wheels his wheelchair into the State Home for Crippled Captains, surely?
First class or nothing from now on, ol' mate.
You know it makes sense.