Actual reporting of the one-day final

OK – moving away from the repository of self-pity that this site seems to have become, I shall do a little homage to the bestest King Cricket post ever – his photo journal of the first day of the season.

So, it’s Saturday. The day of the Friends Are Pointless Trophy, and it’s time for me to get ready to go to Lords. I prepare the sandwiches. One ham; one cheese. Plus an apple. (And a sneaky cupcake that no one knew I took.)

So the journey in was horrendous. There are no pictures. I was too angry for pictures. The Jubilee Line was down. I spent all week travelling to see a client on that bloody line, hating it, and now it twists the knife by failing me one last, bastardly time.

So, I arrive eventually at Lords. In an unreasonably angry mood, given the dry conditions of the day, but I have been determinedly knarked as late. I ask one of the unnecessary stewards how I go about buying a ticket.

He pointed left.

He shouldn’t have pointed left; he should have pointed right.

But he didn’t. He went and pointed left anyway.

After trekking a right old trek, I find a man that seems to live in a booth carved into the perimeter wall.

“Can I have a ticket please? A ticket for the cricket?” I ask.
“Are you a member?” The chappy asks.”
“Do I look like one?”
“Well, you need to buy a ticket from over there somewhere. I don’t really remember where. All I can recall is its extreme distance.”

I get annoyed at this point. I indicate this state to him by real rolling back my eyes, jabbering and frothing at the ears.

“Er,” he offers. “Uh. Here. Have a ticket. It’ll save you the journey.”
“Um,” I begin to stammer myself, but this time, in a non-jabbery way. “What?”
“Here.” He passes a ticket across to me. “This will get you in.”
“Right.” I think the foaming stopped at this point. “Thanks.”

So. In one of the biggest events of Britain’s sporting summer, the authorities are giving away tickets. Literally. They literally gave me a ticket. For nothing. Apparently, it was worth £42. But the ECB decided a more realistic price was £0 (for you Indians, that's about a million rupees) .

This improved my mood substantially.

So. I cheerily picked my way through the crowd, most of whom had paid more than £0 for their tickets, to settle in to my day’s spot. La:

I arrived just as Kent were beginning their suicidal tumble. They had lost both their openers. Seeing that they were the underdogs and that I was British, I instantly formed a bond with them, and decided that they should win. For the good of losers everywhere.

Wickets continued to tumble. Eventually, Geraint Jones came out.

“Oh good,” thinks I. “Last time I saw this goon bat, he scored a century for England. He must be good.”

Here he is walking back to the pavilion 15 minutes later.

Talking of goons, I was surrounded by a lot of them. “Come on Kent!” some of them would shout. This had little effect.

All but one of these dapper chappies got lost at the interval. The remaining bloke, despite his energetic and thirsty start, slept through most of the second innings. Although, I suspect their dress-sense was a few notches above Kent's. I don't know why they all dressed like robots. Perhaps it's a strategy to get into the England outfit?

So. Lunch. As tradition dictates, I enjoyed my little picnic on the nursery ground. I read the Times. I still haven’t fully adjusted to its new lay-out. Why did they turn it into the Observer? Why?

Much of the remaining day was spent searching for tea. Obviously, I didn’t want to wait 40 minutes in a huge queue. So I opted to spend the next few hours seeking the El Dorado of Lords: the quiet tea shop.

And, you know what. I found it. The joy! The joy of tea!

The £1.85 spent on buying this rather over-strong, but no less refreshing cuppa represented the sole expenditure for the day. This fact brings me great pleasure.

More happiness was brought about by this fellow.

The crowd liked him. And so did I.

After a bit, we applauded a Zimbabwean. Previously, we had clapped for a South African, another South African, sworn undying love to an Antiguan and celebrated the highs and lows of various Pakistanis. A great day for English domestic cricket.

Kiwis show their rubbishness

The deep flaws in the New Zealand cricket team were finally exposed by Sri Lanka yesterday. The Lankans eased home by 81 runs, in a match in which the Black Caps were outclassed in all departments.

Suffering from two poor umpiring decisions, Sri Lanka still went on to post a formidable 289, aided by an intelligent century from Mahela Jayawardene. In response, the New Zealanders looked at sea against the impressive swing and pace bowling of Chaminda Vaas (1-25) and Lasith Malinga (1-21).

However, at two wickets down, Dilhara Fernando decided to make the game more interesting and single-handedly attempted to lose the match for Sri Lanka. Conceding 45 of his five overs (at the point when the Kiwis only had 90 on the board) Fernando was all over the place. His yips probably arose from Rudy “Harsh Bastard” Koertzen giving him two warnings for running on the pitch in his first over. That’s right. Two warnings in his first over. Nevertheless, I was starting to worry, as the Kiwis had moved ahead on the Duckworth-Lewis trajectory.

However, such is the depth of the Sri Lankans attack, Muttiah Muralitharan was brought on. Now, there are some certain lessons that come from cricketing history. Don’t bowl bouncers to Devon Malcolm, don’t rise to Shane Warne’s challenges and don’t slog Murali. Unfortunately, Jason Oram did not heed this lesson and for the fifth time on the trot against Sri Lanka, fell to the off-spinner. Murali eventually took four further wickets (in about five minutes) to pull the Lankans out of reach.

Sri Lanka really showed the importance of an all-round, quality bowling attack. Clearly, Fernando was a major liability. But there was something in the air that night. The stars were bright, Fernando. And this weakness was quickly taken off and covered up. There's no regret. If I had to do the same again. I would, my friend, Fernando.

The Kiwis, on the other hand were just as rubbish as I have always said. Bizarrely an attack consisting of one good bowler, a twirler and an army of dibbly-dobblers didn’t do the trick against world-class opposition. This team would have been annihilated by the Ozzies. I hope this episode has proven the point that New Zealand are not, and never were, “good”.

The Ayalac curse strikes

I’ll try not to smug in this post. I’ll probably fail, but at least I’m trying.

So! The first blood is drawn. As per my prediction, the West Indies dispatched Pakistan. I even got some things right: Pakistan won the toss (although, contrary to my advice, chose to field); Mohammad Yousuf and Inzamam-ul-Haq contributed with the second and third highest scores; and, erm, Chanderpaul scored a century.

I wouldn’t read too much into this match, however. As two teams will go through to the next round, and there’s two ‘good’ sides in each group, the first stage is rather like a glorified warm-up. Even if there is an upset, the same old pros are sure to get through.

Still, I pity the poor Pakistan fans. Unlike England, they are packed with talent and should win matches. Unlike England, you don’t expect them to lose. And yet somehow they do. Hence, I was also amused to read the desperation in Omar’s blog. It was a lot more sweary than usual. These made me laugh, so let me share:

“Imran Nazir's …. is a fucking idiot. …Someone needs to bumjack him in the dressing room”

One shudders to think what this entails.

“What in the world was [Younis Khan] doing? Did you see that shot? What the fuck?”

Eventually, the laws of physics are attacked:

“Inzi was unlucky with the decision. I think it was going over the wicket. Fuck what Hawkeye says!”

However, as we all know, it was not science that stopped Pakistan, but my predictions. I have back the Windies. Fear my wrath all those that defy my champions!