"doesn't look that way on the scoreboard"

Denizens of The Bleachers,

Someone in authority had pushed the button on the 2000 Olympics public transport system marked "GO" to give me and The Good Lady Wife a late Sunday afternoon saloon passage on the holiday weekend for Our Queenie's 90th birthday to the Olympic Showground at Homebush for the much-hyped [well, in some parts of Sydney anyway] "Derby X" between the Western Sydney Giants [colloquially known as The Pygmies] and the Sydney Swans.
The old, now re-developed, baseball venue at the Sydney Games was sold out for the first time in its history.
The first sign that anything was going on was a right dandy at Strathfield railway station, dressed in a spankingly tailored bright orange lounge suit, with orange shoes, a white shirt and GWS tie, mincing his way along the platform as if he didn't have a care in the world.
Stumbling onto the train we spied a bloke having a mighty time, and two bob each way
He had a double peaked cap on - obviously he'd cut a Swans cap and a Giants cap in half and got his mum to sew the two front bits together, so he could flip the cap around on his head to show his support for which ever Sydney team he thought was a good thing at the time.
Very clever.
My merch paled in comparison: a GWS 2011 Foundation Member's cap that cost me fitty bucks after foolishly signing up as a Member when the Pygmies were still a year away from playing in the AFL; as a goodwill gesture, more out of pity than anything else really, from a hard-nosed one-eyed supporter and one-time Member of the Sydney Swans; a tatty black jacket with football buttons on each lapel, one showing a photograph of Barry Hall, the other of Adam Goodes; and a red and white scarf that had been stolen by someone from somewhere.
Absolutely no idea how it came into my possession, your Honour, honest.
As for the game itself?
It was the Swans' worst nightmare embodied - right there in front of you from Bay 207.
They were caned, beaten fair and square, and stomped on - thrashed senseless by six goals in a low scoring game as it happened.
Things started to go awry even before it began as we attempted to obtain a Shane Mumford bobble-head for the dashboard of the car, and failed.
Neither love nor money could buy one, on account of it was a "limited edition".
Of course "Mummy" could see the writing on the wall when he was at the Swans when they hired Kurt Tippet and then Lance Franklin, both in controversial circumstances, that there would be no room for him at the Swans anymore, so he was sold to the Pygmies, where he's now having a career-best season at the age of almost 30.
By the end of the day, everyone was asking "who the hell was it exactly who was responsible for letting Mummy go?"
No one has ever owned up.
Put simply from someone who was there [and I'd forgotten just how much of le grand format you see at the ground compared to the crystal bucket] it all started with Mummy - didn't matter who the Swans put in the ruck, Tippett, Sinclair, even Buddy at one stage, no-one could beat him.
The Pygs squashed the Syds mid-field flat in close-quarter hand-to-hand combat - it was brutal fully-fighting stuff all game - and there was therefore no service of the ball to the forwards; and the Swans backline was a complete and utter shambles all night.
In other words, Pygs beat Syds at their own game.
Not to mention the fact that Sydney just didn't turn up to play their cross-town rivals, sucked in by the non-existent hype.
In any case, it only went to show that the Swans can be beaten, and beaten well, as they were, for the first time this season.
There would have been a fair bit of chin stroking and forelock tugging and gazing out to sea for Super Coach Horse, at Monday morning smoko down by the Magic Waters in the secret ocean pool..
Something had convinced me that what was going in the seat behind me could not possibly exist - a rabid, very vocal, knowledgable Giants fan.
Tried my best, but it was difficult to go barrack for barrack with him, when your side is doing so poorly.
Whenever a Swans player was completely crushed in a tackle and given holding the ball, which was often, this bloke was fond of yelling out "Hey [name of Swans player]! Do you want me to wash your underwear for you!?"
The nadir came when Lance Franklin, who was well off the ball at the time, came up to the Giants ex-Geelong hard-nut Steve Johnson when he least expected it, and gave him an enormous hip & shoulder that knocked Stevie J clean off his feet into a crumpled heap on the ground; Stevie got up, brushed himself off, and then gave Buddy an even bigger and better hip and shoulder that knocked Franky flying and he ended up flat on his back. Buddy got up and they glared death stare-style at each other, calling it quits and even - they could have just as well shaken hands and agreed it was a 1-1 draw.
An old style gentleman's fracas - by the time it was done and dusted no-one had realised that the Swans had actually kicked a goal, as all eyes and cheers were on the big fella's - the umpires had no idea it had even happened.
But, as it was all night, the Pygmies got the last say...the last laugh.
For an olde bloke on a stick, Spotto Stadium is a cripples dream.
You can walk the entire circumference of the ground without encountering a single step.
At half time, the beer queues looked long - no matter for me no more - but the smoking lounge was behind the frequently placed dunny blocks near the cyclone perimeter fencing around the whole ground...so at half time, from my seat, it was six steps up and about 20 yards away.
No one, including the police and security staff, cared a blue root that the tell tale wiff of cannabis sativa was floating in from many quarters, mixed in with the tobacco smoke.
It's a very intimate ground too for Rules - the crowd is right on top of the players - never mind the biggest video screen in the southern hemisphere - the field glasses worked a treat when the play was at the other end of the ground.
With a published official capacity of 21,000 they were even selling standing room only tickets behind the kiddies jumping castle in the couple of days leading up to the game, and still 541 extra people somehow managed to sneak in - they were hanging from the rafters.
Despite it being an away game, Swans supporters outnumbered Giants fans by at least three to one.
A most extraordinary thing happened at three-quarter time.
As a silly sponsor's promotional stunt, at quarter-time a "lucky" GWS Member was plucked at random from the crowd and was given a task.
At three-quarter time he was to attempt to punt a football in the shoes he was wearing from the 50m arc into a stack of four Toyo car tyres placed neatly in the goal square on the promise that if he did he would win $100,000, and if he didn't, he would get his car re-tyred with the tyres in the goal square.
Well blow me down if this ordinary looking westie bloke didn't get ball off his right shoe into the most perfect parabolica you have ever seen, and as it came down from its beautiful trajectory, it lightly brushed the inside rim of the top tyre, and went straight in.
[The folks enjoying themselves in the Toyo Tyres corporate box would no doubt have been saying to each other "didn't the boys down in Marketing tell us the chances of dropping a hundred grand on that one were about a trillion to one?].
It was more perfect than the perfect hole-in-one in golf, where the ball comes off the tee and lands in the cup without touching the ground.
The crowd, as one, stood, and went absolutely entirely ape shit.
It was a wild scene, never before heard in my life a roaring sound like that in a jam packed football stadium - it was completely deafening.
Of course the bloke who'd just performed the miracle was a whoopin' and a hollerin' and running around the ground in ever decreasing circles like a chook with its head cut off; his wife and children jumped the fence and ran onto the ground towards him and almost bowled the winner over in scenes of utter jubilation.
The standing ovation from the crowd continued well after it was all over, and and only died down when the players started playing the final quarter.
Sitting next to the GLW was a young lad of say 11-12 years old, smartly dressed in leather shoes, slacks, a pale blue sports jacket with a Swans scarf around his neck.
He appeared to be a student of the game, giving the proceedings his full attention throughout the match.
But when the Giants were kicking towards our end during the last quarter, each time the Giants scored a goal, he would slap his hand hard against his right thigh in disgust, then bury his hands in his head and run his fingers through his lanky blonde hair.
But, as the quarter progressed, and the Giants kicked more goals, noticed that each time he put his head in his hands he was covering his eyes with his scarf - it became obvious he was crying.
As he composed himself, he produced a tissue and gently wiped away the tears from the corners of his eyes.
Drew the GLW's attention to this, and she took pity on the lad and said "oh, mate, it's tough isn't it?" to which she said he replied "yes, m'am, it's bloody hard".
When the full-time siren sounded, the kiddie just lost it, and was weeping uncontrollably.
At first thought...thought...oh, the poor poor childe, but then remembered...ah...the innocence of yoof, when nothing in your life or in the world matters more than the fluctuating fortunes of your football team.
Needless to say, that famly group didn't stay for the presentations, and his mother - noticing that we had noticed - gave us a wink as she filed past our seats and said "it's going to be a long trip home"...
Foolishly, we did stay for the presentation of the White Ribbon Cup and the Brett Kirk Medal for best on ground [ironically won by Heath Shaw of the Giants; younger brother of the recently retired Swans star Rhyce "Rick" Shaw] and hung around his neck by the great man himself, who was looking very chipper.
After endlessly playing the annoying Giants team song at maximum volume over and over and over again on the Tannoy, the ground announcer finally came on and said "and just to finish off, now we'd like you to show your appreciation of the valiant effort put in by the Swans today".
The GLW just shrugged her shoulders and said "doesn't look that way on the scoreboard, mate".
The scoreboard never lies.
But.
There's always next week.

GREATER WESTERN SYDNEY: 2.4, 6.6, 10.11, 15.15 (105). Goals; Greene 4, Patton 2, Johnson 2, Cameron, Whitfield, Griffen, Lobb, Coniglio, Reid, Scully.
SYDNEY: 2.3, 4.6, 7.9, 9.9 (63). Goals: Franklin 2, McGlynn, Sinclair, Rohan, Kennedy, Rose, Jack, Mitchell.
At Sydney Olympic Showground, Homebush.
Crowd: 21,541. (Ground Record).

a view from the bleachers

Denizens of the bleachers,

It was yet another picture-perfect postcard Saturday in the Emerald City, so, not being overly busy, found myself gracing my first football match in nigh on two years, [got my excuses but no time for them here], perched on the bleachers next to the King George V Memorial Grandstand at Henson Park in Marrickville.
The Daughters have both just moved to different houses in Marrickville, and thought it would be a good idea to have a lookie at the local team, the Newtown Jets, turn out at home, and invited me and the Good Lady Wife to tag along, for old times sake.
Henson Park - named after some long forgotten municipal grandee - has a curious history.
A former, very very deep brickpit, which filled with water when it was abandoned way way back.
After a few kiddies drowned swimming in it, they drained it, tipped a shit-load of landfill into, leveled it out and shaped it into a football ground as a job creation project during the Great Depression, and nothing has changed there since it was opened in 1933.
You can still see the very top of the brick pit at the summit of the Eastern Hill...a high, wide, and handsome expanse of first class viewing for games.
And it's a big ground -- maybe 150 yards long, or more, big enough to play cricket and Australian Rules on, as evinced by the four posts at either end of the oval, with the rugby league oblong with the two posts and cross bar bang smack in the middle.
With the right contraption, you could even race dogs around it.
So big, that if you know the right people and can pull the right strings, you can even park your car atop the Western Hill and watch the game from the comfort of the front seat of yr own motor.
Gold on a wet day having the windscreen wipers going.
It's now the biggest patch of open public space in an always overcrowded suburb, still jam packed with former workmen's cottages and semi-detached houses - it used to be the quintessential migrant working man's suburb [and is still pretty solid, for those who are politically minded, it's right in the heart of Albo territory].
Lived in Marrickville for a short time myself in the early '90's when the first Daughter was little - just off the Sydenham Rd, in Silver St.
And there's a fine pub of the depression era that sits literally next door to the Henson Park ground, which curiously, is named the Henson Park Hotel, and is obviously pumping with pre-loaders on game day.
The Newtown Jets [one of the "foundation" clubs] are principally famous for being thrown out of the top-flight league in a desultory fashion when they went stone motherless broke in 1983, after spending all their money trying to win the 1982 premiership, having been beaten in the 1981 Grand Final.
As a result, the NSW Rugby League's name is mud in these parts, and they've played in what's effectively the Second Division [locally known as the Suburban Comp] ever since.
And as it turns out, they say there's always a goofy ground announcer who reports on the Tannoy that the day's attendance is 8,972...doesn't matter how many are actually in - it's always that crowd...exactly the same number who were at the Jets final top-grade game back in '83.
Heard him say it myself "and today's attendance is 8,972".
It's just incredible, is it not, or maybe merely beyond belief, that down to the last man, the same crowd has turned up fortnight in, fortnight out, at Henson Park for the past 33 years?
As you might guess, Newtown carries a lot of baggage and has chips on both shoulders, with long memories to match.
Their opposition on the day were The Mounties who come from out Mount Pritchard way, south-west beyond the Chipping Norton Lakes, and are somehow a feeder club to the Canberra Raiders in the top-grade.
The crowd [probably around four thousand, maybe a bit more] was what you'd expect of a tribe; dead-set long-time Newtown diehards up near the bar, all with ancient Jets merch on including some splendid blue jackets with 'Under Rated Since 1908' neatly embroidered on the back of them, old punters who'd go every other week just to watch, wanderer's-in, curious hipsters, teenagers cruising for hook-ups, ordinary folk, a few regulation obligatory drunks, late middle-aged stoners out the back of the stand's toilet block sharing scoobs [wasn't sharing mine], a subbie or two, some rabid-looking dogs, and yuppy scum who rode into town on the back of the last real estate boom and their bratty chidren [like the twin boys - put 'em at four years old - probs IVF - who insisted on scrabbling around under the bleachers for used pies, half-eaten sausage sandwiches, ice cream wrappers and so on, and hurling them onto the field, while spraying unsuspecting punters with vile detritus, until finally being rather unsuccesfully disciplined by their useless father] - did they give a shit, no siree!
But the Jets most vociferous fan was a Chinaman - everyone agreed that of all the Oriental faces, his was def Chinese - say in his late 40's - dressed in a Newtown cap and top, three-quarter length khai pants wth long white socks and sneakers.
He was screaming and yelling throughout the match.
And he was also a nervous kinda fella - he urged his players on by name at the top of his lungs as they surged forward in attack, but had half his left fist fully jammed in his mouth while beating his plastic water bottle against the cylone perimeter fence as the Jets ground away grimly in defence.
He was also the chief cheerleader of the "Newtown! Newtown! Newtown!" chant any time the Jets threatened the tryline.
Late in the second half, when the Mounties potted a penalty goal to put the result beyond doubt in their favour, the Chinaman turned on his heels, left the ground, and disappeared - as if in a puff of smoke; he was there one second, gone the next.
That was clearly enough for him, he'd done with it.
The Jets had all the run of play in the first half, but contrived to butcher five tries close to the line - dropping or fumbling and knocking on the ball, the no-look hospital pass that misses by a mile, they even passed it into touch at one stage.
Should have been miles in front at half-time, but found themselves 12-6 down, after letting in two very soft tries as the top-of-the-table Mounties simply strode through the Newtown defence.
It's also apparently a tradition as Henson Park that kick-to-kick happens at half-time, not full-time, so hundreds of folk jumped the fence and started punting balls all over the shop.
Some kiddies even got on board the padded foam line-markers and got other kids to tow them around as if they were kings of the world.
Right in front of the George V Stand are two purpose built coach and bench dug outs covered in curved fibreglass that are entirely unused during the game, with the coach and bench of both sides prefering to sit on plastic outdoor setting chairs right on the sideline, along with a few esky's of alleged Gatorade - each team has one trainer - no "doctor" or "physiotherapist" vests in sight.
During half-time, people were drinking beer and eating sausage sangas sheltering in the dug outs to protect themseleves from being donged on the head by flying balls going every which way and that.
The ground announcer barked on the Tannoy at the end of half-time "Righto. The big boys are coming back on, so time to clear the ground, and take your balls and other shit with you, including the mobile phones you've left on the pitch" and within a minute or so, the players reappeared and it was game on for the second half, which was a full-on arm wrestle in the good ol' grapple style.
But Newtown were getting tired; at one stage, one of their blokes was kicking for touch from a penalty and committed the cardinal sin of booting the ball straight into the arms of an opposing winger.
A cry - the best barrack of the day - rang out from the stand "Oh, you goat! You've been taking lessons from Merle Perle again!"
Now there's a sledge that goes so far back in the mists on time, that you won't find any reference to it on the new-fangled internet-thingy.
Mounties scored an unconverted try late in the game, then potted the penalty goal, and Newtown scored in the dying seconds, and it was game over 18-12 the away team's way.
Best players?
Thought the inside centre for Newtown, Matt Evans, had a cracker - the kid can run, take the ball up, and bust the advantage line at will - while the prop forward for the Mounties, Rhys Kennedy, [one of no less than four Kennedy's playing on the side - they might as well call them The Camelots] toiled, ground, tackled and grappled his way manfully throughout - had a blinder. Saved a few tries.
And then there's Jet Man, the lunatic who rides the full perimeter of the ground on a small bicycle with trainer wheels, pedalling furiously while a hootin' and a hollerin' madly waving a Newtown flag with a swag of children running in his wake Pied Piper fashion whenever the Jets score a try.
He went round only once with Newtown's first-half try, but didn't bother to go around again for the Jets consolation try right at the end of the day.
By then, he was sucking on a tinnie and already preparing to ride out of the ground - on what people say who've seen him elsewhere in the district - appears to be his everyday drive.
We took The Daughters to many games involving the Mighty Balmain Tigers at Leichhardt Oval when they were mere kiddies hoping to inculcate them into the culture, but they don't have time for football much anymore now that they are both deep into their adult lives in their 20's; although, deep down, they still have a love of the finest sight in world sport - running rugby league.
The day out only went to confirm that rugby league football in Sydney - forget what the TV moneymen and bullshit artist publicists say - is still tribal.
Internecine warfare at its finest.

Please don't get me started on the Swans losing by a single behind -- "a bloody point" -- to the lowly-ranked, un-loved, hapless Richmond [now Sydney's official "hoodoo" team].
Just don't.
To kick one goal more than the opposition and still lose makes it a funny game, eh?
A classic case of snatching defeat from the jaws of victory.
The only upshot of the match is that the Good Lady Wife has now launched the BAN THE BEHIND movement.
The ultimate aim of the Leauge of the Disgruntled campaign is to uproot every behind post in the length and breadth of the entire Wide Brown Land, saw 'em up into one foot lengths, sell them off to traditionalists, historians, and souvenir hunters, and from now on it's a two sticks GOALS ONLY game, OK?
You know it makes sense.
Don't argue.

playing in the Mexican League

Canine Fanciers,

Looks like it's all lovey-dovey hoochie-coochie in the Clarke household at the minute.
Mrs MJ Clarke has been selling her "fabulous abs, so soon after giving birth" [that must be the blissful, beautiful, peaceful, painless birth she had - can't see Kyly as a screamer] to the magazines - again - just in time for the Mothers Day weekend issues.
How does she do it? - fit in her 5:45am workouts around the new baby, writing books, eating lettuce leaves etc, and then there's her "busy career" to cope with [not entirely sure, but the career seems to be just being Mrs MJ Clarke].
No need to punch no timeclocks, no siree, no time for it.
Disappointed that there was mention in the mags of how the book sales are going, or how many nappies Michael has been changing.
Nannies?
Not a word.
In the meantime - Pup may have found his niche - at last.
It's probably fair to say that he's now finally given up on any thoughts of a return to cricket; how can you beat being the best batsman of his generation, now that a year in retirement is beginning to loom up?
Haven't heard any news about any progress in a proposed short term stint in County Cricket now that the English soccer season is all but over [it's just too hard and too demeaning for a man of his giant stature, anyway], and there hasn't been any well attended press conferences to announce a contract signing with any Sydney T20 team for next summer's Big Bash hit 'n' giggle.
Might as well rest on your not insignificant laurels in the Pantheon.
And move on.
His new niche?
Motivational speaking!
Why hadn't he thought of that before?
He's always had a way with words and forthright opinions, just ask Simon Katich.
Seems Pup has been booked to knockout out a keynote address, along with Million Dollar Listing New York star Fredrik Eklund, and internet entrepreneur Daniel Petre, [never heard of either of them], and 35 other speakers for the three and a half thousand real estate agents who are expected to show up for the Australasian Real Estate Conference on the Gold Coast, starting May 22.
What a gig, and what a coup for the organisers.
MJ Clarke giving life advice to real estate agents, empowering them to sell, sell, sell, win, win, win!
And Pup could tell them a thing or two about the wonderful wide world of property.
Like, how not to buy a farm on the Southern Highlands and build a cricket oval on it, only to find that you rather quickly get sick of it and all the expensive maintenance involved; and it's still on the market after two years.
Not exactly a marketer's dream.
But let's forget all about that, all he needs to tell them is that location, location, location, now means anywhere in Sydney, Sydney, Sydney - the more waterfront the better - get the bank and the goverment to buy it for you, don't live in it, don't rent it out, just negative gear it to fuck, sell at a mighty profit, and Bob's your uncle!
How can you lose?
Everybody's doing it!
Millionaires as far as the eye can see!
Just look at me!
Absolutely perfect, just like my wife's abdomen! [cue laugh machine].
It just seems all so natural.

The Swans continue to carry all before them, and why not?
Even the Melbourne commentariat are starting to say Sydney are unbeatable on their day - doh.
But they'll be the first to tell you they said that last year, and the year before that, and the year...blah, blah blah.
However, with a backline that can sit on the football par excellence and close down a game with the snap of a Giant Clam, a sensational running midfield with limitless talent, forwards to burn, a surpise but effective dude in the ruck, and a mix of yoof and experience like no other team.
And the Swans have got a dead-set legend marquee player who can kick goals from anywhere between 75 metres and six inches out at any angle you want.
Buddy knows the scoreboard doesn't lie, and neither do the numbers in the contract papers.
With a surfeit of forwards, Super Coach Horse pulled off a masterstroke of genius putting Tipsy in the ruck.
My Spy at The Ground in the Colonies says when Tippet was turning out for Adelaide, he had one good game in four - now he's having a pretty good game almost every week.
A revelation.
Pleasing to see the Heeney Kiddie from Cardiff play his second year in senior football like he's been doing it for a decade.
The Club Secretary would be working overtime to stitch him up to a very long term deal, given that he has "superstar" written all over him.
Then there's the first year newbies in "Pearl", "Saw" and "Pest" - they're on fire, and getting games, week in, week out.
And that's not even mentioning third year players like the Hanneberry Kiddie, who's having a blinder.
Even veterans like Reg Grundy of Norwood, with 188 games under his belt at the only senior club he's ever played for, are not dead yet.
And a Captain from a rugby league background with an attitude to match [although not quite as frightening as his father when Jack Snr played for Balmain in the league].
What's not to like?
The Donald, of course, would be horrified and disgusted that Sydney are even playing in the Mexican League.
He'd be building a bloody great wall on the NSW banks of the River Murray to stop boatloads of Victorians from sneaking across past the border guards... and goddamit! Melbourne is GOING TO PAY FOR IT!
SC Horse takes a slightly more moderate view "That's where yr wrong Don; any Mexican team is more than welcome to come up here to the Emerald City, because when they get here, they know, that we are, going to medieval their arse!"
Never speak about politics or sport in polite company.

And, never mind the salary cap imbroglio involving Parramatta RLFC being stripped of the points from their six wins so far this season, fined a million bucks [payable in instalments], and some Members of the Board being told in no uncertain terms to just walk away and wash their hands of it, never to be seen again.
You were probably sleeping under a rock when the Mighty Tiges scored a rare win, but a very praiseworthy and significant one - given who the opponents were - whipsawing South Sydney away, to the tune of 30-22.
Thereby giving Coach Squeak a fortnight's reprieve from the inevitable axe, with most players told last weekend to go home and thank their mums for just being alive on Mothers Day, while the rest played in very dull and ordinary representative fixtures that had nothing riding on them.
Still, how a million dollar team on paper could have got this far in the season and already realistically fall out of the race, remains a mystery.
As far at the Top 8 goes, Balmain at 3-6, with a negative for-and-against, are, more or less, still toast.

"I am unbearably ashamed"

Outragees,

When Balmain coach Jason "Squeak" Taylor next faces the Wests Tigers dysfunctional board for a "please explain" over the 60-6 cricket-score thrashing at the hands of the Canberra Raiders, he should take the lead of Toshifumi Suzuki, recently the Chairman and CEO of the parent company of 7-Eleven, blaming his own shortcomings, when he was forced to resign after losing a board room battle - telling the press: "It is my lack of virtue and I am unbearably ashamed".
Squeak could also add "I have bought disgrace upon myself and my family, failed the players, and dishonoured the long and proud history of the club".
Six losses in a row is clearly untenable; doesn't matter that they lost in golden point extra-time in the last game and were illegally battered black and blue by two points in the game previous - a loss is a loss is a loss - and to mix a metaphor, Taylor must fall on his sword after having been hoisted on his own petard - more than once.
Let's face it, the team looks a million dollars on paper and probably cost considerably more, so why are they going so bad?
The buck stops at the boss's desk, Jason.
So, your decision to call them the Playmakers and give then "a licence to thrill" didn't work out so well, when all the other coaches are putting great store by defence this season, and more penalty goals - which used to be rare in Rugby League - are being kicked this year than in living memory.
Your fault?
Who knows?
But it doesn't help to have a terminally poisonous relationship with the club's most senior player in the form of the Best Leb in The Game aka The Hon. Robbie Farah.
Not a good person, Jason, to pick on and dud from pillar to post, given that he played hooker for NSW last year and remains the best dummy half on the face of the planet.
How can you run a team where the former captain refuses to be captain and dares the coach weekly to drop him to reserve grade?
Poor Robbie, must be hard when you can't even bring yourself to speak to the coach, let alone find even the sight of Squeak enough to make you vomit.
The sharks in the press, of course, are circling around Coach Taylor like he's sitting on a surfboard, and the more extremist popular papers are acting like blowflies hanging around dead meat, with headlines like "Coach Taylor given five days to turn his season around", "Does Coach Taylor have the confidence of his players?" and "Balmain CEO: Coach Taylor isn't going anywhere anytime soon".
But there are rules and etiquette surrounding losing coaches who never had the Midas Touch in the first place, and scapegoatism has become a high priority
You know how it'll play out.
Cop it sweet.
But to be at 2-6 with almost a third of the season gone may, ironically, be a mountain too high to climb for the next bunny to take his job.

The Swans keep on their sweet merry winning way.
Being robbed by ten points by Umpires easily influenced by a huge pathologically partisan home crowd at Adelaide Oval will become a mere blip on the radar come September.
Won't play the Crows again until the finals.
In the wake of the solid win over last year's Grand Finalists West Coast Eagles, the "Best:" column on the South Melbourne side of the stats sheet should have read "All Played Well".
The brililiant mix of youth and experience has no finer rival in the comp; whoever came up with "The Sydney System" has certainly found a winner and will no doubt become a life member.
Could be SC Roos.

No word this week from Clarkesville, but a little birdie is singing that book sales haven't exactly met the wildly over-optimistic pre-publication expectations.
Could be just more scurrilous, unconfirmed rumours.
Who'd know?
Haven't been in the bookshops lately on account of The Good Lady Wife's ban on me buying any more cricket books.
But, you'd expect to find a good clean 1st Edition copy of K.Clarke's True to You without any foxing around the edges, sitting un-thumbed on the $2 remainder table in due course, wouldn't you?
That's when I'll pounce on it for the collection, and won't tell anyone, if you don't.

the full range of filth

Eternal Pessimists,

The numbers are in and the reviews are out.
It must be desperately disappointing for poor poor Pup to find that just about the only way he can get his name and photo in the papers these days, is to appear in public with his wife, Kyly, at say, a book launch at some poncey pub in Paddington.
How did it come to this?
Didn't help that the fishwraps implied mid-week that MJ Clarke "didn't have that personal side" when he was Australian Captain, citing a crude quote from Glenn Maxwell:
"It makes it a lot more easier to act like an adult if youse get treated like one."
The papers, yet again, just taking malicious pot shots at perhaps the greatest batsman of his generation for no particular reason, and with no pretence at all to it being in the public interest.
Plain rude, for mine.
Perhaps Pup should consider becoming a recluse?
Must be awfully devasating for a first time author, like Mrs MJ Clarke, to have her book met with almost universal scathing reviews from the critics.
Some random quotes:
"True to You does not endorse ramming cars in your local shopping centre car park screaming "Towanda", instead Clarke suggests a more serene outlook: 'You can either be happy or right: you choose.'"
"three things I learnt from reading True to You: 1. The downward facing dog is better for you that an actual puppy. 2. Comedy is dead. 3. Christmas will be affordable this year."
"it's really a homage to Kathy Bates' fragile character from Fried Green Tomatoes."
The StatsGurgu has noticed True to You hasn't made the Top Ten Bestseller's list, and it's not even among the most popular "lifestyle" books currently in the shops.
In other words, the lavishly produced minature coffee table number hasn't exactly rocketed to the top of the charts, even at a very competitive price in a crowded market; but that would be a bit harsh as there must be some value in it.
PanMacMillian wouldn't be thinking "surely we haven't backed another dud here?", or would they?
Still, the Cosmic Couple would seem to have a fair bit to fall back on, with Michael Clarked named as the 14th Richest Cricketer in The World during the week with a net wealth of $US16M - no surprise really - but the baby will start eating her way through that.
Of course, Sachin Tendulkar streets them all by the length of the stratosphere to take top spot with elegant ease, but Ricky Ponting's fortune, give or take a sheep station or two, valued at $US65M??
There couldn't be that sort of money in racing greyhounds, surely?
That's unless they've considerably upped the prizemoney purses and the value of brown paper bags at the dogs while no one was looking.
Or maybe Punter just had his Swiss bank account under the supervision of Mossack-Fonseca as a hobby?
No names, no pack drill.

You never mind your football team being beaten fair and square, but when they are fucked over by a mob of filthy bastard no-talents, now that really riles.
Excuse my French, but the Newcastle Knights have to be the lowest of low dog teams in the league comp, and to be robbed by two points by a rabble that had not hitherto won a game all season, that just stinks like a well formed turd.
First, Tigers playmaker A Boy Named Sue goes off after ten minutes after copping a deliberate hit to the head without being in possesion of the ball, and never returns, under the concussion rule and the referee's turn a blind eye.
There is one particularly nasty individual on the Newcastle team - don't know his name - but I know what he looks like - ugly.
He was responsible for leading a five man tackle on the best prop forward in New South Wales, Aaron Woods, with the sole aim of wrestling him down awarkwardly to injure him, and sure enough, Woodsey does his ankle a mischief and will be in Sick Bay 4-6 weeks.
How low can you go, you limbo stickers?
Newcastle employed the full range of filth - squirrel grips, Christmas holds, clothesline tackles, The Cruncher, even the good ol' "chicken wing" tackle - all with apparent immunity from the authorities - no wonder there were more than a few stinks.
Then there's the sheer breathtaking audacity of Newcastle - on finding a random second ball on the ground - to kick it into their own offensive play in a bid to confuse the Balmain defenders with two balls apparently both in play.
The Bamford never blew his whistle.
What kind of cute act is that?
Luckily the hastily-cobbled-together scam didn't pay off in the end - the Tigers were wise to it - otherwise there would have been full-on rioting along the Balmain Road.
Newcastle have no regard whatsoever for the time-honoured un-written Rules of Conduct and Code of Ethics.
They resort to gratutious violence and banned underhand tactics in a vain attempt to cover up their complete and total on-field inadequacy.
It used to be said that Rugby League was "a thug's game, played be gentlemen", while Rugby Union was "a gentleman's game, played by thugs".
Maybe Newcastle should seriously consider switching codes, or just taking their ball home in a fit of pique, never to return.
No idea what the penalty count was against the Tigers, but the thieving Bamfords would no doubt have collected fat wads of pineapples from the Newcastle rooms after the game.
The whole damnable thing just shat me to tears.

Don't get me started on the Swans losing to Adelaide in a show-stopping cliff-hanger. .
Please, just don't.
No one was watching anyway.

wot wig?

Coiffeur,

While surfing "the 57 channels and there's nothin' on", had the misfortune to come across Pup's hair at half time in a T20 "Who Cares" World Cup game while he was in the Sydney analysis studio with Tubby.
The Channel Nine make up dept. have either gone completely mad, or he's been to Kevin Naiqama's barber, or dead set, it's a wig.
A kind of swept up arrangement to a top knot pigeon style, while looking like he had a small breaking wave perched on top if his head.
Cannot begin to describe the colour of it.
If you asked MJ Clarke to drop his dacks and let you check out his pubes, it's a certainty that it's not that colour, that's of course, unless he wears a merkin.
Pup strikes me as the merkin kind of guy.
Wasn't paying much attention to what he was being said, flabbergastered as you'd be with what was on display on the Crystal Bucket, but thinking Clarkey said Straya could win this one, but Pakitsan would probably win.
Straya won by ten runs.
Knows alot about T20, by all reports.
As the poor kid tries in apparent vain to find his post-retirement niche, his wife, [probs just calls her Kyly, or maybe Kiles Baby] has written a book.
Not mucking about or kidding you here - it is absolutely true.
After displaying her perfectly match-fit body just months after having a baby in The Magazines, Mrs MJ Clarke has written a b-o-o-k!
It's called True to You, and it's a collation of old sayings and mantra's about holistic living, how to make today the very best day you've ever lived in yr whole life, and welcome trips on living completely, and wholefood enema's and so on.
A mint condition 1st edition from Pan MacMillan is a genuine steal at just $24.95 rrp.
You can imagine the scene at Pan MacMillan's Editorial Board meeting when Pup comes in pitching the concept of a perfectly ghost-written autobiography, yes, about him, and them saying, ' oh,man, Pup, Clarkey, man, we've already ghostwritten three Captain's Diary's that, like, bombed for you and us, I mean man, this is tough to say, but jesus man, just forget about the autobiography, eh? Won't sell. But, maaate, if you could get your missus, mate, to put together some sort of lifestyle book, that would be a different story altogether".

Been reminded that about ten months ago, there was an ugly rumour going 'round that the football part of this blog fell apart at the seams - seemingly forever - but that's bullshit.
Haven't got the time to waste no more on week to week reporting, that's finished; but you can't stop the old professional sports journalist in me from telling it like it is, and speaking the truth.
So please forgive me.

The Swans start the season by giving Collinwood a million goal hiding as well as doing 25 behinds with a rattan cane.
South Melbourne plenty. The Wood's? Bugger all.
This, the day after 11 Collingwood players - a cricket team - were busted by the strand-of-a-single-head-hair test for taking "illicit substances" during the off season.
That's AFL Secret Code for "party drugs", and it seems the Magpies were having a mighty time over the summer.
Why not, when you can have a couple of brekky cones, just a touch of ice with yr beers over a long lunch, and then stuff cocaine up yr nose, arse, any ol' orifice will do, until the cows come home, while sipping on potent alcohol laced concotions?
What's not to like?
Problem is, when Easter comes, and you have to put all that away -- 'cos now it's business time -- is it any wonder you'd play like goastshit?
My Spy at The Ground and me always dream up new knicknames for first year players.
Papley brings Paspaley to mind, so he has to be "Pearl", Mills is simple. Just gotta be "Saw". But poor Hewitt by no fault of his own, as he probably would't know or be related to Lleyton - the biggest spoilt brat in world sport during the naughties - but unfortunately bears the same surname; so Hewitt's nickname would have to be "Pest".
All three youngsters can play, some better than others.
Then at the other end of the scale is Buddy.
At least he's learnt how to properly show his humanity on field - going from the unbridled joy at kicking a spectacular first goal of the season, to being the very picture of a man in a world of swirling pain, after getting a good knock to the shoulder.
Will be worth his contract money this year if he stays on the park and kicks them all the way to the Grand Final - and wins it for them - no pressure; honest, really.
Then Sydney give Carlton a good and proper ten goal lesson.
Mmm...bright start, to be sure.
The rugby league season was well under way by the time the AFL got around to it.
The Tigers won the first two games defying all the pundits who thought they were def wooden spooners, and then had the next three thieved off them - robbed blind by the Bamdord's.
On paper they look good.
Very good halves and five-eigths - the local kiddie Mitch Moses will turn into a superstar backliner in time, for mine.
A world class full-back in Tedesco.
Handy centres.
Solid pack.
And brick shithouses running both wings - fast.
They can even afford to "hide" Chris "The Try Scoring Freak" Lawrence in the second row, where he is starting to find a new spark in his football career, when everyone except the loyalist fan thought he was all washed up in the centres at the age of 27.
And The Best Leb in the Game is just back from pre-season injury.
It's a team that can score tries, kick well, and and can cement the brick wall in defence when necessary; its a very sinple game, that's all you need.
Or you could rue the last two seasons ruined by injury.
Coach Squeak Taylor has saved his own skin by giving them a Licence to Thrill, and yet the "Entertainers" don't make it to live free-to-air television until round six.
Go figure.

worrying about things that never happen

Speculators,

What ever happened to the good ol' days?
Like when the cricket went right through to the end of March [well, thanking the Good Lord Joisus, first class cricket still does] and the football season always started on the Anzac Day long weekend?
Now you don't even have time to fart between seasons.
Barely a day or two into Autumn and the NRL season starts this weekend, while the AFL have waited for a very early Easter.
Little wonder rugby league players in particular complain of being overworked: an impossibly long season - the Grand Final is the first Sunday in October (!) - an inappropriate bye system that suits no-one, and five mid-week representative games scheduled for bang smack in the middle of the season. [A problem the AFL doesn't have, with the demise of the BIG V a long time ago now].
As a result, by mid-season, half the players are wounded and in the Sick Bay for extended stays.
Sensible arrangements of yore done away with with the stroke of a pen for no good reason [except to make more money for the rich].
Was horrified that even though there were only three games scheduled there this year, and Swans announced they were abandoning Stadium Australia [aka ANZ Stadium aka the Olympic Stadium aka Cathy Freeman Stadium] for good, and will be playing all their home games at the SCG.
Why leave an obviously winning ground?
The Stats Guru pointed out they are way in front in the win/loss ratio at the ground [32/22], especially in finals, where the Swans have won eight and lost two.
At least he says there's some welcome good news - Barry Hall's all time record for most goals kicked at the ground [87] will now live on in infamy, forever.
It's because the club has "listened to the fans", apparently.
The fans, who of course are very strange Eastern Suburbs types who can afford with ease the most expensive seats, have told the club "anyone who lives west of Paddington can go fuck themselves, and isn't there some club called the Pygmies out there somewhere in Sydney's armpit, for them, anyway?
It's difficult to park your Lamborghini or Maserati in the Olympic precinct, when, if you have the right cash, you can park more or less right outside the front gate at the SCG.
What riles me most is that no consideration whatsoever was given to the disabled punter, like me, who would just love to pop along to a few games a season.
Cathy Freeman Stadium is as perfect as the day it was built - what other ground in the world can you walk or hobble around the entire circumference of, both inside and out, without encountering a single step?
The place is bristling with lifts, and any seat in the ground is a short flight of stairs up or down from there, bars along every second or third aisle, and with the supermarket-style check out, the beer queues are never long even in a packed ground...and the booze is actually cold...you need to slip the gloves on to hold the cup on a mid-winter's day sometimes.
Joisus! When the children were young, you could even easily steal pies and stuff your overcoat pockets with them and no-one was any the wiser, until they, sadly, did the sums one day, and closed that loophole.
One of the few places where everything was thought of from the off to stand the test of time - it still looks brand new after 16 years - with every kind of consideration putting the customer at front and centre.
In stark contrast, the SCG is a higgeldy-piggeldy shit-hole of a place for the crippled.
Trip hazards eveywhere you look, mighty treks to your seat, and you'd be lucky to find a bar for some of that refreshing Lukewarm Stadium Beer, let alone one that isn't overcrowded.
In the Brewongle Stand, there is but one lift - the service lift.
Clearly remember the year after Supercoach Roos retired from coaching the Swans, being in the service lift one day on my stick, with a bloke in a wheelchair, and a charming young sub-continental chap carring a tray of canapes, when Roosey walks in.
Paul obviously had no idea where he was sitting and was struggling with the lift buttons.
Poking at them and speaking to no-one in particular...he said "level 7, mmm. Club SCG, eh? Mmmm. What exactly is Club SCG? Is that, like, The Members?"
To which the Indian gentleman head-bobbled and said "oh, no sir! The Members is over there, sir. Club SCG is much better than The Members".
This, from a bloke who'd coached the club for the best part of a decade, and had no idea where anything was in the stands.
"Spiritual Home", my arse.
You have to play at a ground for 60+ years before it becomes yr spiritual home.
The previously derelict and now turned into a suburban soccer ground, Lakeside Oval at Albert Park, is the Swan's aka South Melbourne's Spiritual Home.
They played there for more than a century.
How easily people forget.
And as my poor poor friend, the Country Member, with a season ticket, remarked, for the first time this year, the previously free public transport from Central Railway to the SCG is no longer included in the price of the ticket.
Sidelined and ripped off, once again.
At least the Swans, with Buddy back from the ward and firing, and the team chock full of talented yoof and experience, with a little faith, hope, and [goddamit] charity they might even have half a chance of winning the Premership.
You can imagine my mortification on opening the 40 page (!) magazine previewing the rugby league season that fell out of the Saturday Daily Terror to find that not one of the 18 so-called "experts" had tipped the Mighty Balmain Tigers to make the Top 8, and three of them had tipped the Tiges to take the Wooden Spoon.
They better not go that bad or they will, again, be a very hard team to follow.
But in the cold light of day, Balmain has no viable leagues club [er, actually, no leagues club at all] so no viable means of support and no money to fund player recruitment which is where the on-field power lies in this caper, a dysfunctional board, a poisonous relationship beween Coach Squeak Taylor and the Best Leb In The Game, who'd rather deck each other than look at each other, let alone speak, [you won't win that one Squeak] and they carry a huge South Sea Islander winger who's built like a brick shithouse and can run like a bat out of hell, but goes to the worst barber shop in all of Sydney; they may well be right, and they could go that bad.
But it's all "coulds", "mights", "ifs" and "buts".
The fortunes of football teams at the start of the season is mere speculation at best, most often scurrilous, and more often just plain wrong.
Joy, despair, unfettered delight and abject disappointment come later.
So, as The Philosopher would say, why do what most people do, and spend most of your life worrying about things that never happen?