Literature and cricket

Cricking, much like farting in a swimming pool, is all about timing.

As with writing a book. You have to wait a sufficient time before unleashing a self-indulgent attack on the universe.

After some recent dodgy comments, the rugby union community is considering a “cooling off period”, which would ban media statements by players until a certain time after an event. It may be worth thinking about for the cricket world, but one wonders whether any period of time would be enough to prevent Duncan Fletcher making a fool of himself.

The problem, here, as far as I can see, is that cricketers lack creativity. Sure, there are loads of dubious books out there with titles like “Playing a straight bat”, “Time to Declare” and Phil Tufnell’s new book “Bowling into the Rough”. But lets face, these are like chess books. You feel you should read them, but you never will. In fact, they’re nothing like chess books. No one should read those bastards.

These titles are all self-obsessing autobiographies, or stating-the-obvious books on cricket tactics. They never try their hand at poetry. Which may explain why cricketers seems to hate each other.

The point is this: cricketers should use literature to defuse their repressed selves. Fletcher should have turned his experiences into a spy novel or something. Look, it’s easy, I’ll do it:

James Fletcher stalked through the corridors of the enemy’s lair with a careful, but deliberate tread. Who would have guess, Fletcher thought to himself, that the baddies would base their HQ here at Fleet Street. Suddenly, but not entirely unexpectantly, Fletcher heard the tedious grating of a Yorkshire accent, and was seized by the need to hunt down the source of this racket and beat to death its producer.

Thereupon, a behatted bloke in a ridiculous suit appeared, and continued with its Northern moan,
“Oh no. You’re bloody useless you”
“Ha. Cotboyc. We meet again.”
“Ei. Not that it’s much good.”
“It’s time for you to retire hurt.” Fletcher raised his trusty PP-class Grey Nichols aloft and dispatched his interlocutor with a well-timed hook shot. Before the head had chance to hit the ground, it had time to emit one last whine, “Oh no, lad, you’re technique’s all wrong.”
“You’ve dropped your last dolly.”

The path was now clear for Fletcher to penetrate into the heart of Fleet Street, and finish off the head honcho. He burst through the doors of the Media’s most powerful mogul. The most feared, mighty and ancient of commentators. Fletcher, whilst trying to catch his wheezing breath, confronted his old enemy,
“So, Blofeld we…”
“Fuck off.”
“Er well, actually I…”
“Fuck off.”
“Right you are then.”