A close brush with success

Today, I went to work conference. Don’t worry. I didn’t learn anything, and I came away with my free share of booze and pens. A success. Apparently, though, I shared the hotel venue with none other than the England cricket team.

I should have been alerted to this by the quantity of short sweaty, red-faced bald men shuttling about the rooms kitted out in England gear. I didn’t think much of this. There are small, exhausted looking men everywhere.

But, my colleagues eventually informed me, I missed an obvious equation:

Puffy-faced + red chops + total lack of hair + sports gear = professional cricketer

The place was crawling with Englanders. In my spiral of pen-bingeing booze-outs, I missed all of them. I was probably the only person in the whole bloody place that would take an interest in unseemly idol ogling, and yet it was left to a conference of bland suits to ignorantly glance at the more famous of the puffy-faced gingers.

At least I scored three paper pads.

If anyone wants to know where they are, I will happily tell you. But only in return for a free corporate branded item of stationery.

AYALAC is going to Berlin!

Alright. Alright. After so many emails, I have relented.

“Please The Atheist. Please. Please go to Germany to report on live matches there. I really want to know what’s going on.”

Your wish is my command, demanding public.

So, after briefing playing a console from Deep Space 9 (“boop biddle beep” was my line) I have secured a job in one of Europe’s oldest and most bombed capitals. I wonder if the ECB will call my mission off?

Anyway, to the evil, international, corporate goons that previously enjoyed my employ, I say this: SQUID YOU.

Can anyone tell me what the German is for that? Or the German for anything, for that matter.

Cricket news and things

As I work primarily in the public sector, the client has recently provided me with a data stick. On which is contained the complete details of all social security claimants in a certain London Borough.

No encryption. No password. Great stuff. Now, which train station should I leave this? Perhaps plaster our branding all over it and post it to our competitors? Maybe I should simply go the old fashioned route and send it to the Guardian?

The possibilities are endless.

England have announced their Stanford Squad. It’s not very interesting though. See?

So, anyway, back to me.

I’ve had an interview today. It was one of those nasty phone interviews, where you suspect that the interview panel is rolling their eyes at each other.

Word of advice, when in an interview, never start a sentence with the words “Oh, don’t get me started on…” This is not a beginning that can lead to good places.

Although, it isn’t bad as the “ice breaker” I fielded some years ago. These goons asked me:

“If there was any character in history you would like to invite to dinner, who would it be and why?”

Lots of “inspirational” corporate type answers popped into my head: “Nelson Mandela, because he’s so…blah blah blah…” I even considered Ghandi. Ha!

No. I didn’t give that answer though. I said this:

“Erm…not really sure. My brain’s keeps suggesting one name. Er. No. It has to be Vlad the Impaler.”
“Er…right. Any reason why?”
“I think we would share the same sense of humour.”

Oh Christ, it finally happened

The thing I have feared for the last few months; the terrifying prospect that I have anticipated since the start of the season; the source of many disguised attendances at matches: It happened.

It actually, really, finally, horribly happened.

I was walking into the Oval to watch a twenty20 match, and then, from the pits of hell, He came. Who was he? I don’t know. I doubt whether he did. All I can remember is reasonable height, green t-shirt and short, possibly curly, hair.

This thing strode further, and uttered the following bone-crushing words to me:

“Excuse me, are you a left arm Chinaman?”

…

What facial expression are you supposed to wear when your world collapses?

I considered this interesting social question briefly, as my body involuntarily creepped to the right, and away from this person that could only be described as a man.

I decided that the best course of action wasn’t, as my rabid sub-conscious screamingly suggested, panic like a maddy, but was to decant the madness to him.

“You are a nutcase” said my face. Coupled with the deranged side-stepping, I think I may have persuaded him that he was clearly a total weirdo for asking such a silly question. With this, I pressed home the advantage, and answered his question:

“No.”

I then ran away like a frightened little girl.

So, now I’m a celebrity. Sachin Tendulkar, you have my empathy.

Titillation on the 1004 to Fenchurch Street Station

That’s three times this has happened now. Why me? Where there? Why them?

For the past few months, I have suffered an affliction. A tragic, strange condition that impinges upon me only with a small locality.

This morning, like other, innocent mornings, between Limehouse and Fenchurch Street Stations, a usually innocuous stretch of rail-track, I spied from the dubious safety of my train carriage another naked man. Totally starkers.

This is the third time it has happened. And always at the same train line. Different men; different places, but always the same area, and I’m always on the train.

Thankfully, they are not.

It impossible not to look at a naked man. Your eye, like some masochistic, rogue organ, darts hungrily from peripheral view to all-consuming OMG there’s a naked man subsuming my entire vision within an instant. Your conscious is powerless to prevent its own temporary destruction.

Now, I fear, my eyes become excited whenever they reach the area. They begin their prowling, hopeful search for naked men. “This will distress our owner” say those malevolent bastards.

What is it with the men of Limehouse? Does it have a scorchio micro-climate? If so, why the hell isn’t there counter-balancing women? I have never seen a women perform a little East End dance of public nudity. Or perhaps my eyes discretely guide me away from such sights?

A friend claims that there’s a women homed near to where he lives, who stands in her bay window and four o’clock every day. Only, she seems to forget to dress above the waist on each occasion.

It is curious that she chose four o’clock. Maybe it was her post team-time treat?

In other news, India beat Bangladesh.

AYALAC assailed by bastards

Today, I have been Got At by the Dark Side. The most evil, soulless creatures to walk the Earth have entered my life; leaving only cold shudders a sense of the sinister in their wake.

That rights: The Lawyers got me.

Some bastardly law firm in the States enacted some Cease and Desist Order, or something, at me and removed my latest viddy-blog.

They argued that it infringed their clients copyright or something. Which is obviously absurd, because everyone knows that AYALAC doesn’t obey laws. We play by our own rules here. We’re nutters.

So, I’ll be working on some ways to return my stop-motions to you, once I have either blown up The Lawyers or circumvented their daft dikats.

AYALAC raises tone of Wisden

Simon Jones, pictured above, has been hanging around my house recently. He’s really looking forward to the new edition of the Wisden Cricketer.

It’s usually a flighty, even racy, publication, so he’s hoping for something a little more high brow this month.

As the rest of the England team gather around the latest copy, excitement builds: perhaps we could have some serious, hard-hitting articles on Andrew Strauss, perchance?

Ryan Sidebottom, however, is more interested in the poster of himself. You should see his bedroom. He’s mad for it, him.

What’s this? Simon Jones has found something to interest him. An article by AYALAC! Dominating the most important page of any self-respected magazine: page 22. The page of kings.

Alec Guinness gets a little jealous of a photo that isn’t of him.

Richie Benaud reads the whole piece. Because this is a photograph, you can’t see his vigorous nodding. But he is. Well, as vigorously as when Richie moves towards a bottle of plonk.

Michael Vaughan doesn’t talk nonsense

Sorry for my prolonged absence, I was seeing family in Northern Ireland. Apologies. Here's a picture to prove it.

But in my absence I see that not only my fans went mad, but Michael Vaughan appeared to lose all his faculties and talk sense. Disturbing news indeed.

Ryan Hairybottom has recently received an injury that will probably rule out his participation in the forthcoming test series. It is clear to most observers that he has been England’s leading bowler since his re-debut nine tests ago.

On this Vaughan said,

“Hopefully over the next few days he’ll heal fast.”

Although a few hacks were baffled by “he’ll heal”, it was generally agreed that this sentence held some semantic content and was intelligible to those without PhDs in linguistics. In this continuing epiphany of clarity, he then added,

“He’s been a really good bowler for us.”

The attending press were genuinely astonished at the lucidity of these words, and there was some debate at when an England captain was last so clear. Although, some of the sceptical journalists from Newcastle suspected that the final “us” was actually a “Michael Vaughan” in disguise.

You know, you get a new perspective of life and, more importantly, cricket after a weekend away in Ireland.

You struggle not to sound so English in pubs, struggle to contain you Londonish impatience at having to wait for your Guinness to settle, struggle to take the dog for a walk without repeated random acts of conversation with strangers happening against your will, and you struggle to repress you inner rage at the rustic driving of your fellow road users.

It is at these moments that you realise that you are not only totally incapable of enjoying yourself on holiday, but of the need to devote your generally rubbish existence to the all-encompassing import of cricket. Take the cricket press away from man and you leave a shrivelled and searching soul.

It’s good to be back.

If this hasn’t placated the more vociferously deranged members of the audience, I make the following announcement: AYALAC has a brand new regular reader, in the form of my new baby niece.
Here she is considering my views on Pakistan’s batting order, and by the looks of her seven-day old face, she approves. She’ll slot in nicely with the rest of the readership, who are, generally, lazy, indolent and in need of someone to tell them what to think.

Ah, there’s nothing like a bit of gratuitous cuteness and general abuse to win back your followers

Cricket: the cure for Christmas shopping

I saw David Aaronovich in Covent Garden yesterday, whilst I was Christmas shopping. An Incredible Happening indeed. (Actually, he's not so incredible, and annoying. But hey, it's time to be generous.) Judging by the directionless scowl on his face, he was worrying about Matthew Hoggard’s fitness.

You see, that’s what we’re thinking about this Christmas: cricket. Bugger mum’s book; the sister’s socks and dad’s…whatever the hell it is you think of this year, what we’re worried about is the possibility of losing second place.

Christmas, for me, used to be a time of suffering and fear. What on earth am I supposed to get this year? Why can’t they just leave me alone and stop demanding things from me.

But then, I came across the England tour. Suddenly, from the pits of winter, a little summer warmth emerged. Of course, the results of England foreign adventures were just as depressing as being a paper boy in the snow, but there was something to hold on to. I don’t mind holding on to someone else’s shit. Not if it is Michael Atherton’s.

Yesterday, I went in search of a newspaper to read something about cricket over some lunch. Stupidly, I did so in Soho, expecting there to be a shop that sold something remotely useful. I was stymied.

So, I went to get some lunch anyway. I went to a little café place. It claimed to sell pies. I ordered my pie and offered a card for payment. “Sorry sir,” the bastard said “we don’t accept cards. There is a hole-in-the-wall machine just over there.”

So, just as they were putting my lunch in the oven, off I went and, upon inspecting the ATM, decided that I would just go and buy a copy of The Cricketer and read it in a place that acknowledged the advent of the modern world not by putting cherry bloody tomatoes and random sprinkles of green on a perfectly good pie but by taking a debit card.

It just shows you, if you try to do something that is unrelated to cricket you are doing it wrong.

I hope my pie caught fire and burn down that place. Serves those corporate hippies right.

By the way: we've got some new links on the Spinning Party. Check 'em out at the bottom.

More incredible things

As I was walking from Tower Hill Station, where I met Paul Collingwood, towards Fenchurch Street Station, you would never guess what happened to me.

There standing, alone and resolute, was the England Chairman of Selectors, David Gravney. Weirdly, he was standing in the middle of the street. Holding firm, like a proud rock in the rapids, against the tide of City commuters.

I didn’t have the nerve to talk to a man that sort of looks like a sports administrator. I decided to share his street space as I walked past him – hoping that his abilities of selection would rub off on me. Sadly, they did not.

I went into the shop to buy a banana and a snack. The fruit wasn’t ripe yet and the crisps had passed its sell-by date. But that wasn’t my fault. The food looked alright in the net…the food net…where you keep…never mind.

Gravney also looked grumpy. Perhaps he’s able to look forward into time and saw the England cricket team getting battered in the Oval.

What is wrong with the world? The English cricket fan has had bugger all to cheer about since 2005. Oh wait, we beat Pakistan in dubious circumstances last year. You remember, when Daryl Hair threw a wobbly, and gave England the game because he’s a racist. Other than that, we’ve had little applaud. Maybe we should bring back racism? To improve the standard of international cricket.

An incredible happening

Today, I met Paul Collingwood. I had an in-the-flesh experience with the England one-day captain. This is the most amazing thing that ever has, or will ever, happen to me.

Well… I say, “met”. I meant, of course, walking past him, or a man who looks just like him in a public place. The eye-contact was one-way.

Funnily enough, it happened today in London’s Tower Hill Station, not in Durham. I was mumbling under my breath about annoying tourists, shoving my ticket into the barrier machine and there He was. He was walking in the opposite direction, in full England track-suit.

He is surprisingly tall, and doesn’t really look at all like my dad.

Sadly, the pressures of London commuting are such that I didn’t have time to worship his beautiful all-round feet. As soon as I saw the Great Man, he was gone. He was just a blip in the crowd.

I was rather hoping that the aura of his inspirational leadership would rub off on me. It didn’t; the whole journey was a nightmare. It was a long and gritty affair, and it was certainly not pretty. Despite the scrappiness, I got there in the end.

You can read a jolly interesting history of Tower Hill Station here. I’ll notify the authors of this historical event so they can add it to their account.