Name That Bum #15

Right. Bit of a toughie this week. It's another Bum From the Past - as well as being a Miriam Bum in One.

What a treat.

Whoever wins gets something life-changingly wonderful.This week we'll play using Stockholm rules.


Good luck and good bumming.

Bum the One

Can you...NAME THAT BUM?

Post Stanford chit-chat

This is my last week at work. I am working on a client’s site unsupervised, alone and bitter. Oh, the client is going to hear an earful. Oh yes. They’re going to find out exactly what they get for our over-inflated fee, let me tell you.

So, while I’m away doing that, I decided to dust down the ol’ Predictron, and ask it to tunnel into the future. The location: England’s dressing room. The time: after the Stanford Parade.

“Hey Owais, what kind of oil do you use on your bat?”

“Well, I’m glad you asked me that, Jimmy,” responded the Middlesexian batsman, as he removed a small peppering of powder from the pin-striped lapel of his bespoke Fawns and Newham suit. “My weapon needs hours of greasing and rubbing down before you can get it to really start gushing with runs.”

“Yeah, I had a problem with the runs once” said a hairy, Northern creature. But nobody heard. As usual, he was only wearing his underpants.

A low hum began to fill the room.
“Sounds like GOD has arrived,” said Iain the Bell. He set down his Lucian Freud exersketch for 12-16 year olds. “Should we prepare the auguries?”

The seriousness of his tone settled the high-spirited group.

“Yes,” replied young Stewie “we must please him well.”

“There he is! OH! Doesn’t he look marvellous!” a young Peter Moores suggested excitably over his snack of blinis and Golden Panda shavings.
“Arriving on a Porsche–drawn carriage!” a chirped Luke Wright, “how classy.”

Indeed, the Dirty Saffer was a site to behold. Muscle-bound and stripped to the waist, standing astride a shimmering Lapis lazuli chariot, The Mighty One was propelled by four firey soft-top Porches, as topless and resplendent as the four super-models that drove them.

“Oh bugger!” exclaimed Andrew Flintoff “That reminds me I forgot to buy the new Veyron.”
“Isn’t there, like, a ten year waiting list for that?” asked some fool. It doesn’t matter who. The only important issue is that the question was asked. It was a narrative device. It adds to the drama and progresses the story. Come on, get involved.

“Well, you know how it is” shrugged the beefy all-rounder, made all the more huge by his recent acquisition of Trellis and Son - “Fine Pies for all the Family. And More.”
“Yeah.” They all chimed.

Along with the distant concert of sporty engines and whips, a trudgy, dumpy sound could be heard approaching from the stairs. The large Brazillian teak door, inset with detailed rosewood reliefs depicting historic scenes of English success, lurched open as a tired Monty Panesar stomped into the room.

“Hey Monty,” spoke Pratty Mire, “how did you get here? Catch a bus?”
All: “AAH HA HA HA”
“No, actually,” stumbled Monty. “I caught a lift from my dad. He has the new Vauxhall Insignia.”
All: “AAH HA HA HA HA”

“Hey, chaps, I forgot to tell you,” said that spinner no one has heard of from Notts “I recently bought this Swannery in Dorset or somewhere. It’s well nice. I get all my quills sourced from there now.”

“Not a bad investment in these times,” saged Paul Collingwood, “I find that my avian assets are consistently the highest performers in my portfolio.”

“Yes," said Samit or Other. "And I reserved a lovely spot for The Dropper.”

All: “AAH HA HA HA HA”

Angus Fraser makes dangerous statement

Generally, I don’t like to get involved in county politics. It’s boring. I prefer to focus on the actual cricketers – and their filthy private lives.

But, if you must know, there are rumours that Angus Fraser will take over as “Managing Director” of Middlesex.

The only reason that this is news is because a) people have heard of Angus Fraser and b) Graeme Smith is in hospital awaiting a mouth transplant.

I love Fraser. He, along with Andy Caddick and possibly Phillip J Tuffers were among my favourite players of England’s 1990s Golden Era.

Fraser’s main tactic was to spend half an hour running in and by the time he got to the crease he was visibly exhausted. When Brian Lara dispatched him to the boundary, Gussy would kick at the ground and blame the captain for asking him to bowl an unreasonable number of overs. Just look at how knackered I am you heartless bastard. He would say that. Only, without quotations marks.

Then the captain was changed. Hopefully to one who would put our Angus in at slip.

On the speculation regarding this county position, Fraser has said:

"I'm keen to chat with them and find out what they [Middlesexian big-wigs] have to say because it's still a place close to my heart. I currently have a very good job with the Independent newspaper but…”

And this next bit requires a severe buttock-clenching bracing position.

“….there is no harm in listening to what people have to say.”

Oh Gussy. Gussy. Gussy. Gussy.

Angus. Angus Robert Charles Fraser. Angus. You may need to know all there is about doggedly plugging away off or around the women’s changing room, but your understanding of human behaviour is somewhat lacking.

Personally, I feel that this dangerous and frankly inflammatory statement should preclude him from any position of authority. Obviously, he’s fine in his current role as a journalist. But any job where people should actually listen to him should be immediately ruled out.

Perhaps send him back to the ICC?

In my experience, the most harm has come from listening to people. In fact, I have given it up altogether.

Look at Stalin. He spent most of his early days listening to Lenin. And then look what happened.

It’s the same storey with Gordon Brown.

Do you want to end up like that, Gussy? Do you? Do you?

Well then.

Here’s to unemployment!

Ryan Hairybottom. Matthew Hoggard. Andrew Symonds. And now me.

We greats. Us, the noble four. We share a single unifying victorious wondrous characteristic: unemployment.

Cricket Australia has recently revealed that being a jobless bum is now the best profession in the world.

We outcasts know that we’re best placed. We have no “responsibilities” or “futures”. We lone wolves are independent. We don’t need friends. We have self-pity for companions.

I’ve been taking hints from my dole mate, Ryan – known to your disreputes as “God”. He tells me the best way he real with rejection is to find a quiet bridge, hide underneath it, and cry until you pass out.

It’s worked wonders for me.

I don’t have a job. But at least I don’t play for Nottinghamshire. The seat of evil. So I think I have one-up on him there.

Anyway, Siders also advices hanging around fish and chip shops. Apparently their bins are like gold mines.

But the coming credit crunch has showed that many fine, talented, occasionally gorgeous people, have been thrown out to the seagulls.

These rejects need to be looked after somewhere. Usually, the English county circuit is the perfect home for expended refuse, but I feel the need for a new institution. Somewhere to home the nearly man, somewhere to sooth their disturbed pride, somewhere where they can feel like cricketers again.

Personally, I think Southend Pier is the best place for them. It can be a little concentration camp for castoffs.

Wales + cricket = The Rubbish

The last game in the one day series between Empirer and Empieree drizzled out to an abandoned draw.

Many of us would recall the abandoned draw as a familiar result to family holidays in Wales. You were stuffed into a clinging anorak, prodded up soggy mountains, dragged through depressing marshes and forced to commune with Welshies. The Rubbish was everywhere present.

Of course, the fellahs in the ECB ignored the hard-fought experiences of youth, and have repeatedly played matches in Wales. WHAT ARE THEY THINKING?

Can you remember a single holiday to Pembrokeshire or Gwyndathshire every classified as “won”?

Why don’t England play in the South of France or perhaps in the Italian hills? Those were all “won” holidays. You could bring some nice wine into the, err, ground. You could wax lyrical about the local cheese. Such grounds even offer chances to laugh at the silly locals’ English. Moreso than in Wales.

In stead, the ECB offers Welshy sog airy, pies and lager as watered down as the weather.

In other news, that Australia is messing everything up with his daft theories. This isn’t the first time it has happened.

But, I’m debating whether to go to see the potentially interesting Somerset vs. Notts match in Trent Bridge this Saturday. Only problem is, the train ticket is £50. And I’m not guaranteed any play or a West Country win.

Should I go?

Somerset: they haven’t won yet

Some of you are wondering about Somerset. “Why haven’t they won yet” I hear you say, “they’re well ace.”

I know, I know. We are all concerned. But we all know what a total bastard reality can be. That a place famed for its scabby minors and gun crime can beat a perfect, rural idyll at anything is indicative of the essential rubbish of things.

But that is the situation that the First Division of the Whatever County Championship. Nottinghamshire are currently cheating the most, and are leading the tables. Somerset are cheating less, and so are only second.

But what’s second place?

It’s like announcing to your office that you’d like to have a baby, and only finding a fresh donation of semen on your desk the next day.

Sure, the fellahs’ hearts are in the right place, and it’s a thoughtful gesture, but they have failed to realise the result you wanted.

Justin Langer promised so much after his triple hundred and smashing of the Second Division. And, despite some cruel draws, he has generally produced the goods.

But we expect more. It is not enough simply to “like” cider and occasionally go shopping for shoes in Street. No. Victory. Victory is all. Victory or deportation. Deportation back to Australia.

Now there’s incentive for any man.

There’s not long left to see whether Lango can inseminate a new era of West Country success, or just produce a small mess which eventually crusts away.

KP's magic man milk

After I revealed KP's secret to success yesterday.

The Englanders leaked documents substantiating my libellous claims.

This was quoted from KP:

"YES MY PRETTIES! YES! DRINK! DRINK MY LIFE-GIVING MAN MILK SO THAT YOU MAY COME STRONG. STRONG LIKE YOUR WARM, LOVING MOTHER"

KP’s brews up a treat again

Very rarely does an England sporting team dispatch strong opposition. Sure, we can crush Turkey at Polo and thrash Poland at Turkey Gobbling, but very rarely do we beat a number two side in the world, let alone repeatedly blown them away like farts on a summer breeze.

But that’s what England did today by smashing South Africa for the fourth time on the trot.

There were times when the Saffers looked strong. They started very quickly, 69-0 from bugger all overs. Although, this promising start petered out into a relatively disappointing 183. Similarly, whilst in the field, they had England in trouble at a wicket down, a quarter of their overs passed, with still over a hundred to go.

Then Jacques Kallis decided to bowl himself. One moment of short-of a length madness, and England had advanced their score by twenty, downgrading their official status from “Panic! Panic!” to “Hang on a minute…”. When Andrew Flintoff eventually took the field, Defcon stood at “Take that you Saffer Pansies!”

So what exactly has KP done to the England cricket team. Obviously, they’ve been suckling at his fantastical, victory-enhancing teets. But Michael Vaughan tried that, and his man-milk only seemed to last 2005 before it became crusty and incapable of giving life.

Some people think that he has made players feel valued. Loved. Wanted. Whereas before, I suppose, they were abused regularly. Here’s a leaked training session under Vaughan’s regime:

“You bunch of useless wankers. I don’t know which one of you is most useless. Is it you Harmless, you pathetic heap of gangly sinews?”
“Yes sir.”
“What about you, Owais? Oh way to be crap more like”
“Yes sir. I am exceedingly crap.”
“Good. It is through pain and suffering that you learn to lose matches. And it is only when you lose repeatedly and feebly that you understand the true meaning of success.”
“Yes sir,” says all.

Compare this to the recently leaked transcript from KP’s “Friends’ Camp”:

COME MY BEAUTIES. SUCKLE. SUCKLE STRONG SO THAT YOU MIGHT BECOME MORE LIKE ME

More acual reporting: Colchester blues

I went to Colchester this weekend. A surprisingly nice place. It has a “Dutch Quarter”. Although, this isn’t as interesting as it sounds. But full of charming cottages nevertheless. So if you fancy a weekend of Dutch cottaging, then Colchester is your place.

The first thing you do when you go to watch a game in Colchester is realise that it’s not Chelmsford. Actually, it’s quite important that, when you set out on your car, you don’t just assume that they’re playing in Essex’s quite good county ground, but in a middle-of-nowhere backwater that you’ve never been to.

Obviously, the ground wasn’t sign posted. But, fortunately, Banana World was, so we had plenty of cultural alternatives.

So, we drove around Colchester a bit. Decided it wasn’t terrible. Eventually, I too a picture of a plastic map provided by the Council mounted on to the side of the road to help guide our meandering navigation.

The red dot signifies our position. The green at the top shows where we should have been. Interesting that.

So, for the perfectly reasonable price of £15 we entered the ground that offered the same views as we would have had had we stayed from the safety of our car.

At least in the car, I wouldn’t have got slightly sun-burnt when the eight minutes of mild sunshine bore into my pasty skin.

The great thing about small grounds is the opportunity it affords for mid-interval pitch gawping.

I wandered out with the rest of the bearded pot-bellies that populate county grounds and CAMRA festivals alike and pontificated knowledgeable on the pitch.

“Bit dry” someone said. “No bounce” another divined.

We then took up position at the umpire’s post, to stare thoughtlessly into the abyss.

When the action resumed, Essex’s strong position was ebbed away. Which was surprising, given that their attack was led by Grant Flower.

Then Graeme Hick came on. Everyone loves Graeme Hick. He’s old and tries to hit the ball far. He nearly lost his wicket on the long-leg boundary on his first ball.

Look at Graeme Hick. Look at Graeme Hick in all his majesty.

England follow the path of foreignness

By winning. England are winning. They actually played a game of cricket and won it. By winning.

I’m not sure how I feel about this. Usually, I have some pretty strong feelings on this issue. But, today, I feel confused.

England is led by a Saffer. We have foreign keepers. We have foreign players. There is a pretty strong correlation between their foreignness and their success. Which is a surprisingly deep reflection of the British economy in the post-war period.

But, I don’t really care about losing. An international sport is essentially a tribal activity. We jeer at those over there; and celebrate those over here. Regardless how amazing They are and how totally rubbish We are, we fill the room with hate and love in equal measure.

I enjoy the ownership I feel over the team. The irrational companionship I feel with those holding similar accents when we watch a group of other similarly accented people go and try to do something.

Look at the Scottish football team. Their supporters pride themselves on a fanatic, ceaseless following of a relentlessly awful team. It’s almost stubborn. Would they trade this for the relative success an all-Britain football team could offer? Would they buggery.

So, it’s with England’s crushing, impressive yet strangely unstirring win over South Africa rather confuses me.

Notwithstanding the Saffers’ obvious fatigue after a committed test series effort, the Englanders performance was hearty.

But it was inspired by some geezer who wears ear-rings and is generally regarded by those who don’t know him best, as a twat. He is does not sound like me.

So, was this my England winning?

I don’t know.

I know I might feel happier if Twickenham won the World Cup. But would I feel so elated if we drafted in a load of three armed mega-aliens to do the job?

Yeah. Probably. That would wipe the smile of those evil Teddington folk.

Bastards.

Wisden about town

I have been recently informed that The Wisden Cricketer has published another piece of mine. This was the first I'd heard of it, so acquired the latest edition first thing in the morning.


I was feeling generous. So, I offered a temporary work experience position to the magazine. It could shadow for the day, and learn the ropes of being me.


Here we are at the start of the journey. Angry at the morning commute.

The magazine's getting into the swing of things - just look at those eyes.

8 o'clock. On the District Line. And sure enough: there's my piece. I forgot I wrote that. Happy days.

I wonder whose shoe that is?

Towards the end of the journey, I realise there's a large piece on my favourite topic: Matthew Hoggard. Look at the handsome fellah.

It's lunchtime. I decide to take Hoggy with me. We head down the King's Road.

We go to look for sandwiches. The Hoggler spots some nice shoes.

And pants.



After a honest day's work is complete, it's time to rush home.

And reward ourself with a lovely cup of tea.

Cricketers and their train stations

Many people have noticed the stark resemblance between certain members of the England cricket team and stations on the London Underground. At long last, here is a reference for those seeking confirmation of suspected similarities.

Richmond - Alastair Cook
Nearest tube stop to Twickenham. Nearing perfection, but not quite there.

Mansion House – James Anderson
Although it’s in a poncey area, you can’t help but look at this station and think “why does this exist?”

Paddington Station – KP

A bit too flashy at times, especially with its dubious high-level refurbishment, but with its impressive and far-ranging reach it is undoubtedly on of the best stations in the city. Although, it’s foreign connections are a bit suspicious.

High Barnet – Ryan Hairybottom
A bit scruffy around the edges, but generally does the trick. However, it’s a bit too Northern for my liking.

Clapham Common – Andrew Flintoff
With its exotic residents, generous park and fruity nightlife, this deprived gem offers an old round experience to those tempted to slum it. Although, wandering around, you can see why the locals take to so much drink.

Pudding Mill Lane – Monty
Promises more than it serves. Doesn’t deliver you to a great areas and needs to do more to distinguish itself.

Fenchurch Street Station – The Hoggler
An excellent deliverer, with a superb track record. A bit old, a bit boring, but always gets you there in the end. Although, it is irritatingly and inexplicably not connected to the broader London Underground Network.

Gare du Nord – Darren Pattinson
Many commentators have noted how much this station looks like Robocop.

Cricket: It’s still happening (just about)

There have been some various matches going on. Not like a hip hottie on the other side of the bar, more like it’s happening, but not in a very happening way.

Using 1960s slang to describe cricket matches may not be especially germane. But, the world seems to be taking a little step back from cricket for the moment.

Sure, there are soggy games in the sub-continent. A smattering of domestic matches here and there. But between the tests ‘n Lord’s final and the up-and-coming South African one-dayers, there isn’t a great deal to say.

You could mention the rain. The rain in The North. The rain in Scotland. Or the rain for Wednesday’s twenty-bloody-20. You could do all of those things. In stead, though, I will talk about myself.

Besides, is alluding to Northern dampess especially enlightening?

Today was fun. A client come up to me and said, you must be from ____ no one here would wear a shirt like that. A shirt like what exactly? One like this? With a tie? With buttons? WHAT'S WRONG WITH MY SHIRT?

On which note, I’m going to start a new game: guess who sacked me. It has it going on.

The rules run as follows: occasionally, I’ll drop hints about the firm that fired my behind. Using these clues, you have to fire bomb likely offices in London. Whoever guesses right, and hits the right building, will be awarded pretty paintbrush picture, or something.

Name That Bum #14: Answer

Oh whoops! I forgot to award the Name That Bum winner.

The answer to latest conundrum was, of course, Robert Key, hero to millions.

Congratulations to House Monkey, who is awarded a real, actual picture taken of Robert Key by yours truly.

Now. I spent some time, at the Kent match I recently attended, conducting a study of Robert Key’s bum.

The bum, in itself, not particularly interesting. It is much like all the other bums in this world. Yet, it is holds an absorbing, fascinating draw. It’s not its healthy plumpness nor masculine firmness that compels the eye, but its relative proximity to the ground. Much like that of a Basset Hound.

Whether Key simply has stumpy legs, or a weirdly extended torso, seems rather irrelevant. The fact of the matter is that his bum, either through design or accidental downward droop, lowers Key’s centre of gravity.

This might, one supposes, heighten his leverage enabling superior stroke-play. It might simply be a frivolous gift to the crowd to enhance our amusement at the site of his running. The reasons for its vertical unambitiousness are unclear.

But the fact of the matter is that his bum is uncommonly close to the ground.

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.

AYALAC no feel like blogging today.

I got sacked today. I don't have a job.

No one has named that bum.

Name That Bum #14

Long time no bum.

Today, I put that right. I've got a real hard one for you today, kiddies. So hard, that I could get arrested.

Although, the last ten times I claimed impossibility, the first guesser hit home.

Right, usual rules apply. First one with the answer gets some amazing thing.

Good luck and good bumming.

Clue The One

Clue The Two

Clue The Three

Can you....NAME THAT BUM?

England victory overshadowed by beach volley ball on the telly

As you no doubt have been informed countless times before, it’s hard to be an England cricket fan. This is mostly because the team you follow is useless. Useless, and yet it talks itself up constantly.

It’s rather like the cocky kid at school despite his money-bags father, is still retarded in the brain and many other places.

England’s retardation is mainly focused on the balls. But the comparison is valid.

I have been struggling with the television remote as late. No the batteries aren’t running out (thank god I have been spared that hell) but the finger is hovering quite purposefully over the “Watch a Bit of Olympics Now” button.

I watched a bit of women’s beach volley ball the other day. A hitherto sadly neglected sport in the AYALAC household. But watching bikinied women leap around helplessly on sand has charmed me unrepentantly as late.

Of course, the Chinese won. But, the culture of the “sport” seemed so remarkable. In between each rally, brief opening bars of American pop music would blast the stadium. The play list ranged from the Beach Boys to Gary Glitter. It was a very inclusive event. Even convicted paedophiles were celebrated.

That a fun, playful, ridiculous sport can be identified by the Chinese authorities for a medal is an astonishing indication of China’s peculiar seriousness and single-mindedness in its ambition to win everything.

You know these barely clothed girls have been taken away from their families at the age of two, selected for a life of gruelling beach volley ball training. Spending 18 hours each day beach volleyball. Then learning how to dismantle a T-72 tank for the remainder of the evening.

These guys are going to crush the cricket world. Compare this twisted, indefatigable determination with the English county circuit. It’s like comparing Hungry, Hungry Hippos with Hannibal Lector.

However, what they lack is a sympathetic, if a bit frightened, blogger to help them on their way. HERE I AM.

England look strong, but only they care

Sorry for the long delay in posting, my life has sort of been turned upside down. Not like that of my mate, whose dad he thought was dead for the passed twenty years, popped over for tea one day. Mine's more of a “oh my god, I’ve not got a job” scenario.

Anyway, on to the important things. Kevin Pietersen is still England captain. Oddly enough, the ECB apparatchiks did not see the glaring idiocy of their ways. Now he’s making a total pig’s ear of it by winning a match.

Very un-English.

Hopefully, things seems to be preparing themselves nicely for a feeble collapse on the last day. I can’t wait.

Although he’s still GOD in my eyes, it looks like England have quietly forgotten Ryan Hairybottom. Now that Steve Harmison has decided that he’s no longer a flailing lank-a-tonk, the services of the left-arm seamer are no longer required.

That’s life in England cricket, toast of the table one day, and burnt toast in the bin the next. It’s good that we have departed from the bad old days. The days when players were handed single caps. The day’s where selectors had favourites, and kept picking them, no matter how many long-hops they bowled. We have come so far.

Tim Ambrose looks like he’s for the chop. I don’t really see why. His keeping still seems competent enough, but the fact that he’s no longer playing New Zealand has wrecked havoc with his average.

Who is going to replace him and does it really matter?

AYALAC says: no.

Hoggy for Cappy

England’s knee-jerk efficiency is far too difficult to keep up with these days. They have already appointed their best twat to lead the team in both formats.

KP, the Greg Rusedski of the England team, was shockingly elected ahead of Matthew Hoggard.

Pre-empting Englishers' Sunday apathy, they tried to prevent a national Hoggard For Captain movement, by imposing a foreigner as king. It’s rather like the Glorious Revolution, only with less style.

Although bringing back the ruff for England’s ODI kit wouldn’t be a bad thing. They'd probably look more normal than in their whites.

So, seeing as the ECB are being a pack of right old bastards, I have no qualms in retrospectively re-launching a Hoggard For Captain campaign.

That he cannot get into the side is an irrelevance. Look at Michael Vaughan. He should be brought in as a specialist captain, and perhaps promoted to number three to sure-up the upper order.

So I urge you all, with every ounce of your misdirected energies, with all the distracted motivation that you can muster, to send the following letter to the ECB.

Dear England,

Please can you sack Kevin Pietersen and install Matthew Hoggard to his rightful position as England captain. It is not too late to change your mind. Big men admit when they’re wrong. Look at Darrell Hair.

You wouldn’t want to be like him now, would you?

There are numerous reasons why you should select the Yorkshire Destroyer as captain. He is one of the most capped men in the country. His cricketing head is truly unparalleled. His ability to play a captain's innings has been proven time and time again.

Another advantage is that he’s English. One more might be that he’s not Kevin Pietersen.

Please comply with my wishes. The ECB is funded by the Government through MY tax money (although, for tax reasons, I actually live in Greenland) so it is only my democratic right to issue authoritarian decrees to the national cricket team.

Yours in hope,

NAME (YOURS)

Send that to feedback@ecb.co.uk. Let me know if you get any responses.

News just in: Pietersen has promised to mould the England team in his own image.

God help us all.

Michael Vaughan hits the fan

It’s all kicking off.

Michael Vaughan has resigned from the England test captaincy, and indefinitely stepped down from the squad. In a “me too” mood, Paul Collingwood has quit the ODI job.

In selfless move, in a way, as England probably would have guaranteed his place until Christmas, but a tacit acknowledgement that England need to think about re-building the side for the Ashes. It is unlikely that Vaughan will ever field for England again.

It also keeps England pathetic lose against the South Africans off the back pages. Handy, that.

But, given Collingwood’s oddly timed departure, you might suspect that the management are clearing a path for the Big KP. Who currently stands as the only man who can get into both teams. Perhaps Peter Moores is beginning to throw his weight around?

Although I doubt it. He’s dead fit. Hardly any weight on that string bean.

So, it’s an end to the Michael Vaughan era. Statistically, one of the most successful patches in England’s history. But you would never have guessed it if you were listen to the bloggers. Miserable moaners that complain about nothing. Not like the happy-go-lucky AYALAC. I’ve always given my undivided and fanatical support to our Michael.

A lasting legacy of Vaughan’s stay hopefully might a sane selection policy. I policy where random goons from Victoria aren’t picked for one match.

We will mainly remember him for winning the Ashes. Which he did in 2005. With some others. He may be remembered for his golden year in 2003, where he averaged over 70 and pounded all that stood against him.

He will be remembered for his grace at the crease and wonderfully flowing drives. He litters countless scorecards with pretty 30s and 40s. And a few 190s.

Michael Vaughan was an excellent England captain, that used modest resources to produce a period of dominance for England cricket that they unlikely to see again for many years.

Top work.

Cheerio Mr Captain Sir.

Collingwood annoys and delights Englanders in equal measure

I have been very busy working recently. To the point where I bought a new weekly travel card this morning. It was only £85.10. As old card was being replaced with old, there was some sleepy confusion.

Resulting in one pass being flung into a large dustbin on Fenchurch Street. As I got onto a bus into work, I realised I was left with an expired travel card.

If I was a bigger man, I would have killed the nearest stranger.

But, in any case, such was my busyness, I haven’t had opportunity to keep up with the third test between England and South Africa. Apparently, Andrew Flintoff has been bowling well.

Worse still, I heard this morning that Paul Collingwood has scored a century. The Ginger Scratcher was put down as “A Drop” in AYALAC HQ. “We need to bring in another South African” thought I.

Now, he’s only gone and blown the “new era” of England cricket. What are we going to do now?

It ruins everything.

Jacques Rudolph, Dale Benkenstein, Brian McMillan, all those players than people are calling to be brought into the England set-up, will now have to wait that extra bit longer.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Collingwood. He’s one of my favourites. I just think England’s test team would be better off without him. Now it’ll be another five months until I can say that without sounding like a total bastard.

AYALAC distributes a nod

Generally speaking, I don’t mind Saffers. A lot of people think them dubious, and decry the Republic as “The Evil Empire”.

I, on the other hand, tolerate them. This is because I find them, on the whole, tolerable.

I have met a great number of them, and have spent a reasonable proportion of my life in that general neck of the woods.

I quite like their gritty, boring approach to batting: Jacques Kallis and Neil McKenzie are quietly applauded here.

A person left a comment asking me who I liked yesterday. With the one obvious exception, I seem to like the South African team. The Sri Lankans are all, of course, lovely.

In the England set up, things are a little bit complicated. There are some players that I want maimed: KP, Jimmy A – the usual lot.

But who do I like? Well Ryan Hairybottom is current GOD and Alastair Cook used to occupy that coveted position.

The gingers get the nod. Captain Vaughany gets my qualified love. Chris Tremlett can have my babies a few times over. Tim Ambrose is Australian.

Obviously, Matthew Hoggard is a king in our time. With those golden locks, he should be given everything he wants. EVERYTHING.

GIVE ALL YOU HAVE TO AN ENGLAND SWING BOWLER NOW.

Owais Shah scares me in a sort of Clarke Gabel way. He looks a bit mad. As if he’s threatening to sweep you off your feet at any moment, and then run off with your mum. Although, that’s probably an unkind comparison. Gabel had terrible halitosis, which certainly wasn’t a hit with the ladies.

You see, it’s a confusing mix. But this is a useful reference for the rest of you. Remember, before you decide whether you like someone, ask yourself, what would AYALAC do?

England provide need for on-pitch umpires

I had a really fantastic idea for a post this morning. A real hum-dinger. People for miles around would come to see this fantastical blog.

Then I went to work and forgot it.

Rubbish.

So I’ll just settle back into a comfortable default, and whine about Steve Harmison.

Oh Lord, how I hate Steve Harmison. Well, I don’t hate the man, I’m sure he’s fine in a bleating, bellyaching way. I just hate everything about him.

Now he’s back into the England set up. Rumour has it that he averages 21 in this season. That’s pretty good. And that he’s fast.

Although, fast long hops still get a pasting.

I put all these anecdotes down to The Usual Nonsense That Surrounds Harmison. Some people can’t get enough of the man. They see a lackey bloke, who chucks it down there at some pace and they become gibbering aunties: “Ooooh.” They say, “Isn’t he lovely?”

No. He’s rubbish. And he’s especially rubbish at cricket.

Worse still, Chris Read fans. What is wrong with these people? Alright, he’s an ok-ish keeper with wonky teeth, but if you listen to Read-fans you would have thought England have refused a place to Jesus H. Bradman.

Like Liberal governments and dead people, Chris Read is part of the past.

I’m getting worked up now. Who else winds me up?

I suppose the Geraint Jones lot are annoying. But they aren’t so numerous now that a court of law proved their champion USELESS.

Ooh. There’s another one: Jimmy Anderson. For some reason, there is a large segment of people out that cannot see that pants for the trees. Occasionally, he bowls a good swinging ball. But swinging long hops are still UTTERLY CRAP.

“Oh but” the Oh Buts always say, “He’s got good figures!”

Oh good figures. Piss off.

Middlesex, despite their wives, win

Middlesex, seat of ancient Twickeneese power, won the twenty20 championship.

When I was growing up, I am ashamed to admit, I mocked my Middlesex heritage. Being a strong Somerset fan through and through, me and my learned school associates laughed at the London county’s last three letters.

Oh how we laughed.

But now, I can feel proud that the county that provided me with a mediocre education and high office as local paper boy can produce players of such quality.

Players such as Murali Kartik, who learnt his cricket as a young lad on Twickenham Green. Players like Tyron Henderson: born and bred in Isleworth Estate. And players like Dirk Nannes: conceived in the Prince Blücher pub.

Their victory will ensure spiritual and perhaps some financial happiness with their playing of a series of Stanford matches in the Caribbean (including a game against England) and their inclusion into the Champions League, where they will play against Real Madrid and Bayern Munich.

Although, these plans may be stymied by Ed Joyce’s wife-to-be, who has “put a spanner in the works” by agreeing to marry the stand-in Middlesex captain.

He wasn’t the only one with trouble with ‘er indoors, as Shaun Udal revealed that “the wife has probably spent [the prize money] already.”

It is a testament to the strong team ethos that the Middlesexians can triumph even though they are married to an inconsiderate gaggle of bastards. It brings a tear to the eye.

Well done boys. We’ll celebrate hard in the Blücher tonight.

We’re all doomed

Sri Lanka have a new spin twin pairing: Muttiah Muralitharan and Ajantha Mendis. And these guys look like they’re going to destroy the world and eat the moon for pudding.

In their recent match against the “we’re really good at playing spin, we are” Indians, the Lankans recorded a huge victory by an innings and 274 runs. That’s the sort of margin that gets statisticians excited: “highest winning margin in the mouth of July” they say.

The Indians were in a tizz at the crease. Only VVS, Hammer of the Ozzies, showed much resistance to the spinners’ tricks.

But, as the Indians followed on in the second innings, the Lankan twiddlers took apart the fragile tourists. The Indians lasted only 45 overs for their feeble 138 runs, with Anil Kumble’s 12 the pick of the innings.

That the Lankan batsmen could manage four centuries in their abundant innings is testament to the quality of the pitch, and the bowling that would follow.

Now that the Lions have two unplayable spinners, on top of two excellent quicks, we should perhaps just pack up and go home. Maybe put the kettle on and flick through the multitude of rubbishy channels that bless all modern day television. If we’re lucky, there might be a Bruce Lee film on. Or possibly some fat men throwing darts.

Murali took 11 wickets and young master Ajantha won eight.

This sort of thing is going to continue for some time. Perhaps, on occasion, the pitch will suit seam. In which case, Vaas will take 11 and Malinga eight.

We’re screwed, aren’t we?

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

My thoughts on the England cricket team

Rubbish, in the main.

From the safe distance of a few thousand miles, I have watched my side flap ineffectively in the face of a beatable, if solid, opposition.

The pain that those bastards cause me does not succor through distance.

WHAT ARE THEY DOING? RUBBISH! D’hear? RAH BISH.

The Michael Vaughan catch was an interesting one. Apparently, the side’s coach is allowed to appeal a decision, which is an element of the rulebook that seems to have alluded me.

I also liked the way that the umpires more or less accussed the English captain of lying. What a grand state of affairs modern cricket is in.

Indians, surprisingly rubbish at cricket

I was on a mode of public transport today. I was trying to understand an Indian newspaper, but, by gad! they don’t make it easy over here.

The newspaper situation has improved significantly since coming to Mumbai. Although the headlines in the Delhi Times were hilarious, the actual content was unintelligible.

I was reading the snazzy Mumbai Mirror on a bus, and a bloke next to me smiled and stabbed his creaking finger at a picture of Virender Sehwag.

“Sourav Ganguly” said he.

“Er… No. Sehwag,” said I.

“Who?”

Like I say, Indians are a bit rubbish when it comes to cricket.

The technique of Indian street children

Hopeless, absolutely hopeless. It’s no wonder that India never get anywhere, if this is all that have to work with.

That’s all my cricketing observations I have for you. Except,

THE BALLS ARE EXPLODING.

The balls are exploding

That is what the Indian telly is telling me about the cricket. Of course, Indian telly tells me about the cricket all the time. Whether it’s games from the early nineties, or the current England match, or some annoying presenters being kra-zee about the cricket.

It feels good to be irritated by people from television. It’s just like home.

Well done to young Sachin Tendulkar, by the by. I understand that he scored his 22nd test century yesterday. Against the Australians too.

Good work.

Right, it’s back to the cocktails for me.

The greatest moment in history

Once again, AYALAC is pretty slow off the mark. Not only did Dave tell me about it yesterday, but JRod already updated the world of it.

But I don’t care. I’ve been to the pub and I bloody love Sluggo I do.

Right, this champion, this he-teddy bear of a man, this goliath amongst puny, underfed Davids, finally struts the international stage like the heaving colossus that he is.

He is.

Sluggo took ten wickets against Canada who, next to Australia, are probably one of the bestest twenty or thirty cricket sides in the whole wide solar system. The Vengeful Venus Eleven and Scary Saturn Sodomites pale into insignificance in comparison to the might and muscular resplendence of North American’s primary cricket team.

It was against this hegemonic power that Sluggo strove so manfully.

To take 5-69 in Canada’s first innings not only showed an awareness of lewd numerology, but pegged the Red Devils back to a score that was unexpectedly pisspoor.

Sluggo, sensing a moment of imperial hesitation within the ranks of his foes, launched into a furious offensive, and dispatched the Canoodians for a pittance in their next innings to record ten wickets.

He was also unbeaten at the crease.

This is the sort of one-man heroics that is worthy of at least twelve public monuments, a change in national motto and the rights to an electric grilling device.

Sluggo. If ever there were a pair of powerful, match-winning moobs in international cricket, there they are.

Have a thought for the poor Canoodling opener, though. This is how he fell in the first innings:

GEF Barnett c Foggo b Sluggo 30

Right, I’m really off to India now. See you all in Delhi, yeah?

Sri Lanka: good, but not good enough to earn a visit from AYALAC

The Sri Lankans know they are my favourite side. And they play up to it.

Knowing that I spurned their lovely country in favour of their much bigger and probably smellier neighbour, they decided to Stick It To The Man, and beat India in the final of the “fixed” Asia Cup Final.

Their victory was principally due to the twizling efforts of their new spinner: Ajantha Mendis.

Everyone is going mental at how brilliant he is. Kingo praises his carrom ball, Q thinks he's good, but not as good as Rodger Federerer, Martyd thought it all rather pretty, Ankit thought him magical, JRod tells us all to calm down and that his mum is better.

So, I’m not going to talk about him. He has been grubbed by the hands of many bloggers before me.

But what I will pick out is a key even that I only saw. This event was the turning point of the match. The mark of no return for my holiday destination and the unseen triumph of the Lankans.

It came in the twelve over in the Indian’s innings. I’ll take cricinfo’s commentary of the moment.

Vaas to Dhoni, no run, cuts away after landing on a length, pushed to covers.

From that point on, the Indians were screwed. Poor blighters.

Right. I’ve got my visa and passport and stuff, so I’ll be off on Wednesday. Not sure if I’ll update before then, or whether I’ll bother posting whilst in India.

But, if I don’t do anything these things, best of luck surviving over the next few weeks without me.


Don’t get Dengue.

The curse of our times

The only problem of having an insane amount of work to do, to the point when you are still at your desk until late on Friday night and looking forward to another weekend in the office, is that other distractions lurk.

Take, for instance, facebook. As a snooty and generally disagreeable kinda guy, I looked down on facebook, neglecting it for years. “Rubbish” I thought.

Now, when you’re working, it is difficult to get diverted by blogging; declaring that “I am going to write a post” requires intention and commitment. I need to deliberately take time off work to compose a blog.

Facebook, on the other hand, is the silent killer of distractions. Its subtle demands orbit discretely on your peripheral awareness.

And this is bastard of a website, is slowly pulling me from my work – extending the amount of time I spend at my desk. I’m searching for people I shared maths lessons with, frantically trying to correct the inadequacy of my “friends” total.

There is some cricket activity going on there. Kinggers and Ballsers both have a following. But that’s not the point, really, is it? Its purpose is to keep you from work; to detain you indoors and away from real, actual people.

In other news, some Australians became intimately close with some other Australians.

England players and Peter Moores celebrate test match win

Michael Vaughan, left, said after England's series win over the New Swindon Crew,

"We mashed em, raht proper. Our new clodaz is well bangin'."

Graeme Smith eats babies

Proof positive.

Younis Khan looks good

Not in that way, but in a I’m-going-to-get-lots-of-runs-and-win-a-match way.

You see, Pakistan’s cricket team, home of the Lesser Spotted Younis Khan, is playing India. They play each other a lot. They’re neighbours, you see; saves on plane fees.

India, in fairness, did alright in their innings. A solid opening partnership, followed by a timely lower order fifties allowed the Indians to hit 308 runs from their innings. Although this isn’t a New Zealanian score, it is highly defendable.

Then the OMG-WE’RE-RUBBISH!!1/OMG-WE’RE-AMAZING!!1 Pakistan casually knocked off the runs with the loss of only two wickets and with five overs remaining.

Misbah-ul-Haq and some bloke I’ve never heard of eased half fifties each. Younis tossed off a century.

Bish bash bosh. Simple stuff. Cricket’s easy. La la la.

In their next match, Pakistan will lose by twelve wickets with 34.5 overs remaining. Some effigies will also be burnt. And the world will look on, wondering whether Andy Murray will ever go away.

It, alas, seems doubtful.

In other, more interesting news, my impending Indian holiday is cracking on apace. Bought some travel books: E.M. Forster and William Dalrymple. Can anyone recommend any other Indian books?

Also, anyone recommend any things to do? Currently, we plan to sit in our rooms; occasionally looking out the window.

Kiwis batter Irish

It feels like I'm blogging on the World Cup again.

Only I'm not so fucking happy.

The New Zealanders (the team that everyone decided were rubbish) recorded the largest ever ODI victory margin over the Irish (the team that everyone decided were rubbish, but said they were great anyway). The difference between the two sides was 290 runs.

Things started off for the Kiwis in a rather rosey fashion. The openers knocked out 266 for the first wicket. After this loss, the Black Caps' Crazy Shoes started to do some talking, and they cracked out 17 runs an over for the remaining 46 balls.

In response the Irish went "Oh no," and opted for village cricket's tried and tested method of accepting the defeat and racing to the pub. Which, in fairness, was an objective the Green Gaps were wholly successful in achieving: they were bowled out for 112 in 29. The leading scorer was a Mr Extras, with 83.

Michael Mason is still having difficulties in placing the ball in the right county.

Kyle McCallan, the Irish captain, commented on many of the Irish players' controversial assualts on the Kiwians:

"Well, we have a young side, to be sure, but our real problem is finding players who understand the rules of the game. But, let's be honest, who seen Brena McCullum's face and not wanted to re-arrange it with a hurling stick?"