Laugh at the Australians and their hopeless spinners

AH AHAHAHA

This rotational Antipodean incompetence brings back warm jolly memories.

Australians are absolutely, totally, comprehensively, hilariously useless at spinning. That their best spinners are part timers - one a Somerset lad, another a bloke more interested in fishing than cricket - only adds to international mirth.

Of course there’s a lot of joyous Schadenfreude to be had in their Sheisse bowlers. Naturally, it doesn’t matter how terrible their players are, the Australians will always win anyway.

Right. Let’s rate the Ozzies’ finest:

Bryce McGain – the sum total age of his body parts is equal to that of the Black Forest. He’s injured at the moment. I haven’t confirmed that this is his current status, but his permanent condition is of some degree of invalidity.

Jason Krejza – Not only does this bloke have a rock ‘n roll name, but viewing his stats is like ascending a stairway to heaven. That is, if heaven is full of massive spinner-bludgeoning titans. In a word: HA! In more: AAAAHAHAHAHAAH!

Now we come to the real snorters:

Cameron Biscuit - Originally from the Clark’s Village in Street, this Somerset lad turned evil, and joined the dark side. And then, after leaving Gloucestershire, he hooked up with the Ozzies. Whilst he played in the English county leagues, he topped the averages of spinners that weren’t Mushtaq Ahmed.

Andrew Brummie - Another Turn-Coat, this man has, for some reason, put countless world attacks to the sword. How this is, I’m not sure. Worse still, he’s a spinner that sometimes bowls medium pace. What sort of monster this thing is, I’m not sure. But, I suppose this strange ogre is from Birmingham. So, I suppose it sort of makes sense. Ewwwww.

Anyway, the point is this:

Laugh and jeer at the Australians. Do it now. Do it before they grind your side into the dust with their feckless bowlers.

Westward ho!

Ha! Yesterday’s post was just an April Fool’s joke. I think you were all pretty much taken in by that one. How clever I am.

Anyway, I think, in our heart of hearts, we all know that the best county in England is Somerset. The best food, best accents and best cricket team all come from this rural utopia. And this season, Somerset will join the voaks in the First Division.

And they’ll be no mugglin’, they’re be climmerin’ up to the top dreckley.

They also have the opportunity show off their new lovely new donnins. As you can see from the picture, they have chosen a bootiful combination of grey and red. Of course, Somerset is the land of grey and red, int ee?

I have great hopes for Somerset this season. Andy Caddick is set to return after some surgery. And Marcus Trescothick has retired from England duty, which means, unusually for a county, Somerset will retain the use of their best player.

I’m a little bit in two minds about the whole captaincy situation. Putting an Australian in charge of the noblest county in the country is heavy blow to Englanders everywhere. There’s nothing wrong with Justin Langer in himself, other than his rank Australianness, it’s just that if you asked him, “what would you prefer: the love of a beautiful woman or a slice of toast?” he’d enquire what sort of marmalade was on the toast.

Although, there are many advantages to the toast. It’s less demanding, doesn’t cost you so much and you don’t feel guilty about falling asleep after you’ve had a piece of it.

In any case, Cameron White will also be handy. Although he’s a policeman from Chard, some Ausslers have got it into their head that he’s one of them. Fair enough, so long as he plays well for us. Don’t worry, meh ol’ acker, I wonst be tellin’ on thy.

Anyway, if you want to catch up on the latest gossip in the West Country, be sure to check out the excellent blog Scrumpy and Sixes. Ee’s a good’un. Ooh arr.

When I played twenty20

The last Twenty20 match I saw right through, I actually participated in it.

I was 13 playing for Twickenham under-13s, against the mighty Teddington. I felt fortunate to witness such an occasion. It was one of those rare moments when a century was scored. James Keighley, a frequent nemesis of the pisspoor Twickenham bowling attack, played a dominant knock.

All of our dibbly-bobblers were rudely dismissed. Even the honest leg-spin of your author was routinely dispatched to the trees on the far side of Twickenham Green. Keighley and his twelve brothers ran the Middlesex boy’s league like a Russian protection racket. Sure there were other good players, but they were like small-town pimps compared to the cricketing larceny organised by the Teddington syndicate.

I almost got one of them out once. A googly down the leg side, followed by a swipe, a nick and a drop. Even then, I realised the history of the moment: I could have told my grand-children about my unplayable delivery to the Little Master. I prayed that Keighley became a drunk, like the plentiful down-and-outs wondering Bushy Park.

Sadly, it seems as though Keighley has become an Australian and changed his name to Cameron White. Forgetting all his bitter memories of his lucky escape against Twickenham, he has continued to plunder runs from all his unfortunate opposition.

In his 16 twenty20 matches, he has scored 660 runs, with an average of 60 and with an extraordinary strike rate of 174. He holds the record for the highest ever twenty20 score of 141*.I feel I played a crucial part in his development. Every ball appears to him like a dodgy spinner from Twickenham and the threat must be expunged with the utmost force. So he batters the hell out of it before the wicket keeper can even say “bugger, not again”.

Since these early days, I started playing the statelier format of 25 overs. Keighley has not grown up. I’d like to think that I have moved on from such things. I am an adult. I appreciate the art of a forward defensive. That is the advantage of longer formats: variety and unpredictability. Attrition as well as expansion.

However, you don’t have the balance between attack and defence in twenty20. There is simply a battle between two extremes: the hyper-offensive batting, and the terrified bowling. There is no finesse and not much in the way of strategy. It is, if we are all being honest with ourselves, a shameless commercial exercise to entice more people to come to buy a ticket. The razzmatazz, the swinging, the cheering is all central to the format, whereas cricket is merely secondary.

The oxymoronic feature of twenty20 is that it is, in fact, incredibly boring. There are no thrills, no unexpected turns of fortune. You know exactly what the batsman is going to do, and if he succeeds in realising his intention enough times his side will win. There are two possible outcomes to every ball: he swings and hits (cue annoying music) or he swings and misses (cue even more annoying music).

But shot-making, at that tempo, is more about luck than anything else. Yes, there is “calculated risks” and clean hitting. But, that’s it. Yes, you can mess about with the field, but the game isn’t about the fielding time; the bowling is irrelevant. It’s simply a throw of the dice to see whether the batting team is lucky today.

If they are, they win. If not, they lose. You may as well make roulette a spectator sport. Frankly, it’s more fun watching Twickenham’s worst on a Tuesday afternoon.