RoboPat is rubbish at the cricket

I don't care that I'm the only one that thinks that Darren Pattinson looks like Robocop. I don't care at all.

But the fact is: he does.

He really, really does.

In any case, as this photograph from the 1990s shows, Robocop was also liable to a pounding at the hands of the Saffers - his one weakness.

England pick a suprise choice for third test

With the unexpected rubbishness of England's mystery selection for the second test, the selectors have began to look further afield for a player with shock value.

Fortunately, with the recent discovery of Radovan Karadzic, the perfect choice has fallen into their laps.

Rumour has it that "Kraddo" has an excellent record of running through line-ups. His low-flying mystery ball is almost impossible for batsman to pick up.

Apparently, he is from a new age school of spin bowling, with some interesting holistic approach to solving England's problems.

It is expected that he, like most people, will be better than RoboPatt.

Pick me for the team, or there will be....trouble

I've realised, most suddenly, why Dazzo Pattinson is in the England set up.

He scared them with his huge gun.

And with his ability to take plenty of hits without changing his approach.

Whooooooo are you? Who-Who? Who-Who?

Now then. Watching your side lose to another side is generally a miserable, if familiar, experience for most England fans.

Watching them destroy all national pride in under five days, whilst you are thousands of miles away is, strangely, no less tolerable.

In fact, having English cricket conveniently timed between dinner and bed in India is like some sadistic stab of fate. You would have thunk that prime time cricket was a wonderful, fantabulous gift.

No.

No it is not. It is a curse on the soul. A dark, England selector shadow in the heart. A beating on the bum.

The pain is amplified by England’s wilful stupidity. You see, at the moment, there are few, reasonably good contenders for quicks around the county circuit.

In fact, it would be difficult to pick a team. Hard but possible. We pay clever people to do that for us. Like lawyers: no one in their right mind would ever want to read the law, we just want give heaps of cash to some intelligent-sounding bloke in the suit who will smooth over everything.

But the England selectors were not suave, or clever. Although they did try their hardest. Only, they smoothed like a slug smears against the road whilst interfacing with the wheel of a ten-tonne autorickshaw.

Imagine my joy when I emerged, rosy-cheeked and cheery after finding one of the few bars in Mysore, when at the bottom of England’s scorecard displayed the following name:

N.O. BODY

Who? What? What is this? Why have I never heard of this person?

The anger began to take over. Some bed linen was thumped and, I am ashamed to admit, a dirty sock was thrown in rage.

This gormless roof-tiler comes from Australia’s dodgiest state: Victoria. He was born in England’s dodgiest slum: Grimsby.

He is a trundler. A trundler from Grimsby and Victoria. He only learnt to play cricket two years ago.

What are they doing?

Really.

WHAT ARE THEY DOING?

Why aren’t they picking Chris Tremlett? Tremmlers is great. He has bounce. He does stuff. He offers loads of things. Things like the ability to take wickets. At the moment, with these collection of feckless goons, taking twenty wickets is harder than getting a nights sleep in Bangalore.

RAH’BISH