Boogie Woogie England’s woozy

Today’s blog combines moaning about the England cricket team, with a review of a gig I saw recently in an unspecified barn in rural Essex, the most unspecific of all the counties.

England’s innings got off to a bad start, consisting of an over-jazzed set reliant on a shouting, screaming, bellowing lead singer who unsuccessfully sought to drown out the happy-go-lucky rhythm section. Also, his hat was rubbish.

The New Zealand innings, rather like the women standing in front of me for much of the night, saved a doubtful performance with an impressive rear action. How the Kiwis managed to pack in such a lively and cheeky little number into such a small pair of jeans was mystifying. But Ross Taylor’s excellent effort certainly shared the same hypnotic qualities.

Hearing that a “burlesque” performer occupied the next billing, I began to feel increasingly nervous. Much like when the announcer heralds a new spell from Daniel Vettori, I feel the need to hide in the toilets.

I’ve never understood this burlesque thing. Reminiscing the debauchery of the 1930s through the power of nudey women is a bizarre art-form. Not entirely displeasing though.

Obviously.

But it’s a strange beast, nevertheless. I once saw a fairly generously-sized women perform with two flaming torches and minimal clothing. She faffed about for approximately three minutes and left the audience in a state of titillated confusion.

The following act was an Australian stand up. His opening remarks were:

“Er… I’m not sure what I’m going to do now. I was planning to get my tits out and arse about with some fire.”

So anyway, the evening looked lost until a final hoorah by England’s foremost spinner, Monty Panesar. We all cheered when he took the stage. We roared when he revealed a new player – a flutist with stripy trousers. We lost the plot when his accompanying guitarist feigned masturbation with his ancient instrument.

Now the evening is delicately balanced. Will Strauss creep home to another century after a painful and heady session at the bar? Should I buy another burger? Why do the girls like that obnoxious South African? Why can’t I stop drinking this god-awful wine? Can England recover the game after fowling it all up by throwing up over the girl in blue?

The answer to all these questions is: Flip yeah!

(Apparently, there’s a picture online of me dancing the “twist” with a leggy brunette. Anyone that finds this image will win a prize of a savage beating.)

Anderson: living example of why you shouldn’t look in medical dictionaries

Once again, I can herald the return of Chris Tremlett into the England fold.

Although he looks like a serial killer to me, he’s apparently a bit of a pin-up. Not sure why. But then again, so is Daniel Vettori. All proving that women make as much sense as a George Bush.

Now there’s a comparison you don’t make everyday.

In any case, Tremler’s rightful elevation to the national squad is partly due to Steve Harmison’s continued twattish behaviour, and partly due to James Anderson incomparably awful bowling.

In fact, you can make comparisons to Anderson's bowling. He’s like that weird picture you see in the paper. You stare and stare at it, but you can’t work out what it’s about. Is it a person? A body-part perhaps. Then, oh my god, before you can tear your eyes away, you suddenly see that it’s a spine-chilling, disturbing image of a horrific injury.

Because you’ve been staring at it for so long, every detail is permanently seared onto your consciousness. You have nightmares about joints going “that” way; objects piercing “that” place; flesh wounds going “that” colour.

My sleep is tormented by Anderson’s horrifying long-hops; his painful gropes for swing; his excruciating attempts at yorkers.

We all know that Tremlers is The Hope. The Great Hope. He’s going to be great.

To continue the comparison vein, although AYALAC is unique, the nearest thing you can compare us to is this video. It’s like a visual version of this site.

Now, if an Allison Goldfrapp wondering around in her pants whilst chucking around garden furniture isn't sexy, then I don’t know what is.