Boogie Woogie England’s woozy

Today’s blog combines moaning about the England cricket team, with a review of a gig I saw recently in an unspecified barn in rural Essex, the most unspecific of all the counties.

England’s innings got off to a bad start, consisting of an over-jazzed set reliant on a shouting, screaming, bellowing lead singer who unsuccessfully sought to drown out the happy-go-lucky rhythm section. Also, his hat was rubbish.

The New Zealand innings, rather like the women standing in front of me for much of the night, saved a doubtful performance with an impressive rear action. How the Kiwis managed to pack in such a lively and cheeky little number into such a small pair of jeans was mystifying. But Ross Taylor’s excellent effort certainly shared the same hypnotic qualities.

Hearing that a “burlesque” performer occupied the next billing, I began to feel increasingly nervous. Much like when the announcer heralds a new spell from Daniel Vettori, I feel the need to hide in the toilets.

I’ve never understood this burlesque thing. Reminiscing the debauchery of the 1930s through the power of nudey women is a bizarre art-form. Not entirely displeasing though.

Obviously.

But it’s a strange beast, nevertheless. I once saw a fairly generously-sized women perform with two flaming torches and minimal clothing. She faffed about for approximately three minutes and left the audience in a state of titillated confusion.

The following act was an Australian stand up. His opening remarks were:

“Er… I’m not sure what I’m going to do now. I was planning to get my tits out and arse about with some fire.”

So anyway, the evening looked lost until a final hoorah by England’s foremost spinner, Monty Panesar. We all cheered when he took the stage. We roared when he revealed a new player – a flutist with stripy trousers. We lost the plot when his accompanying guitarist feigned masturbation with his ancient instrument.

Now the evening is delicately balanced. Will Strauss creep home to another century after a painful and heady session at the bar? Should I buy another burger? Why do the girls like that obnoxious South African? Why can’t I stop drinking this god-awful wine? Can England recover the game after fowling it all up by throwing up over the girl in blue?

The answer to all these questions is: Flip yeah!

(Apparently, there’s a picture online of me dancing the “twist” with a leggy brunette. Anyone that finds this image will win a prize of a savage beating.)