My mum has just returned from a holiday in the Caribbean, and kindly provided me with a cricket report. Well, sort of. Most of the time, her testimony discusses obviously irrelevant details: many non-cricketing references to things like sun and cocktails abound strangely.
Anyway, I was charged with picking up the ol’ alma mater from the airport, on Saturday. Oh, did I say Saturday? I meant Sunday. You didn’t drive all the way to Gatwick at five o’clock in the morning on Saturday as well, did you? Oh, sorry. The ticket said I took off on Saturday, I just assumed that I was going to land on the same day. Besides, waking up at four o’clock in the morning at the weekend is good for you.
I would have been more annoyed. But years of infrequent telephone conversations and general filial neglect have swung moral righteous decisively in a maternal direction. Besides, I’m glad she didn’t arrive on Saturday, when she may have noticed the bloke who was waiting to give flowers to his inward bound mother.
Those people should be ostracised.
Anyway, pointlessly waiting in Gatwick’s South terminal was a small price to pay for the gold-mine of exclusive cricketing information I can provide to you today.
As you can see from this image hurriedly taken from a speeding taxi, the Stanford Ground really does exist. My reporter described this shocking development as looking “really posh”.
See? It's real. We weren't being lied to.
In a further unexpected turn, it was revelled that the small Caribbean island was covered in large billboards displaying images of “men wearing white. Does that mean they’re cricketers? Are they famous then?”
At this point, the report becomes hazy. Apparently, my journalist spotted Giorgio Armani three times, and even swapped good mornings when making eye contact. I think young master Armani is an up-and-coming quick who reputedly possesses excellent seaming abilities.
I’m hoping for more incisive details when my Dad returns in six weeks after he’s sailed back from the Caribbean. So good luck to him… wherever he is.
Bloody parents. Smug ones, at that. It's not like I have a compensation: I hear Geoffrey Boycott's mum averages over 43 in first class cricket. She's no mug with a stick of rhubarb.