Top Ten: Sexiest Crickters in History

I was inspired by Miss Field’s guest blogger’s throw-way line speculating whether Graeme Smith was the sexiest cricketer in history.

This set my historical brain ticking: Who is the sexiest cricketer ever?

To be honest, those who know me best will readily admit that I struggle with sexiness as a concept. What I think as gormless, moronic-looking goon, females swoon over just at the very thought of his expressionless gawp.

So, I’ll be frank, I’m no authority. I’ll even admit that I’m wearing long johns as I type – which uncontentiously hold the title of Least Sexy Garment Known To Man. But then again, I have to walk to work when it’s minus twenty. In my experience, extreme cold never enlarges sexual aspects of life.

Anyway, to add to my catalogue of nude cricketers and general filth, I have compiled a Top Ten of what I consider to be the sexiest cricketers. The sole criteria will be those I would consider suitable subject for a cheeky fling. Or two. Some things transcend sexuality. Cricket, undoubtedly, is one of them.

Number 10 Malcolm Marshall

The sexiest bowling action in history. As silky smooth as those pants your ex-girlfriend bought you that you’ve never worn but hang on to despite passing years of emptiness – you know, just in case.

Number 9 Kevin Curran

Look at the tenacity in that hair. His insolent eyes. Everything about him says: I’m too good for you. And you know what? He’s right.

Number 8 Robert Christiani

People tell me that Daniel Vettori has successfully mastered the “sexy geek” look. Although, not pretending to understand this, I have taken this reasoning to its logical conclusion and found the geekiest, and therefore sexiest, man in cricket. Well, eight sexiest.

Corr. Look at this’un. I would.

Number 7 Justin Langer

A man’s man. Ready to tough it out, no matter how many balls he has to fend off his face. But watch out for the stylish flash of his mighty weapon on this one.

Number 6 Paul Collingwood

(Front.) Ginger nuts are the sexiest biscuit of the baked goods community. The same is true of people. Sex on a number six.

Number 5 Nawab of Pataudi

The picture of elegance, refinement and sophistication. Plus he has a huge conk. And you know what that means, girls!

Number 4 Mound Stand, Lords

A symbol of muscular strength and sturdiness. Can support multiple people in multiple positions at the same time.

Number 3 Graham Gooch

Making sure his equipment is well oiled before he goes into action, he’s never afraid to show off his fine helmet.

Number 2 Sarfraz Nawaz

All women can’t resist a ‘tache. Except for those that can. Pure, untamed phoar on a lip.

Number 1 C.B. Fry

This dashing, fine figure of man could certainly teach the one ones a thing or two about style. And sex.

Right. I'm off for a cold shower now.

Viva la revolution! Viva la Banana Republic!

Ding dong the witch is dead! Viva la presidente!

Well it’s been a rollercoaster 24 hours, hasn’t it?

I’ve been trying to explain to the various Europeans in my company the enormity of the events surrounding the Pietersen affair, and none of them quite get it.

So, I will explain it to you. I can’t see your eyes glazing over.

First off, this is probably the best thing to have happened in English cricket for a while. Not just because we sacked an absolute bastard, but because we did so in such a hilarious fashion.

Sure, the ECB didn’t want to be pushed around by some jumped up, over-hyped, over-sexed, David Beckhamesque Saffer – we all have egos, don’t we? And without self-respect what are we? Well, we’re English, but not much more, I tell ya. Not much more at all.

Secondly, the press’ response to this has been excellent. For instance, take this yesterday’s cricinfo headline:

“Breaking News: ECB yet to clarify situation.”

Breaking news indeed.

Anyway, this whole debacle couldn’t have come at a worse time for England, notwithstanding impending Ashes doom, but they have already gone through all their senior players, and the leadership cupboard is looking a bit bare at the moment.


So, the only plausible candidate got the job: Andrew Strauss. But for some, he looks a bit flat. Allen Lambchops said that,

"Unfortunately, I don't think Strauss will play in all three dimensions so that will create a problem. That is why they picked Pietersen - he can play all three dimensions."

That Strauss is struggling to enter the third dimension, is problematic for him and the rest of the England team in general. It is said that he need a fag to get him down the stairs in the morning.

It didn’t take long for KP’s magic man milk to go sour. Probably because everyone hated him. Andrew Flintoff supposedly lead a rebellion against him. Even Harmison decided to actually express an opinion.

I wonder what KP is doing right now. Feeling a moron, no doubt. Although, it won’t be all touchy feely in the Pietersen camp

Before this ridiculous mess, Pietersen was considered a world-class batsman, in all forms of the game, a feared presence at the wicket and a widely respected player. Now, he’s just a moron who bungled his way out of the job that he coveted for so long. For a man with limitless ambition, he is now constrained from developing any further.

Apparently, he doesn’t have the nowse to act as captain, to play the game and didn’t even have the respect of his own team-members. There is no where else for him to go. He’s just a batsman, and can go no further.

Undoubtedly he’ll make a big show of swaggering back onto the international stage (surely these IPL’s murmurings are not a realistic option for KP; besides, he’s already stated his intention to stay with England) but some of the aura of the man has drained away.

Most cutting is the public exposure of his weaknesses, and of his status as a perennial outsider - a foreigner who finds it hard to get along with others, arrogant yet, almost endearingly, desperately seeking acceptance. There is a tragedy about the man, a dichotomy. His success is brings a form of acceptance, yet this success is brought about by his uncompromising self-assuredness, the very quality that drives others away.

You could write a play about the anguish of the Pietersen soul: A Comedy of Twattishness.

Australia fluke a win

Much like in England, once South Africa won the series, they magnanimously gave the opposition a test match. So, clearly there are some nice South Africans out there.

In any case, no one cares about the trouncing of minnows.

What we really want to know is all the juicy details of the England dressing room: what Moores really thinks of Captain Fantastic; who betrayed who; who’s bitching about who; and who’s shagging who.

Well, I suppose the new Doctor is a bit young and keen.

(See, despite my life spent cowering under the blankets in a cold, dark and unbelievably cold country, I can still make topical jokes. Even though I can’t feel my toes at nights, I am still wiv it, yeah.)

Now. Not only do human beings universally loath Kevin Bloody Pietersen, but it seems like the England team are in on the act. The Old Batsman made a very interesting point yesterday, by suggesting that the whole affair was an elaborately conducted plot to weasel the politically brilliant Steven Harmison into the captaincy.

If true, this darkly executed scheme, not only lacking in any moral reference or empathy, but it would instantly result in Steveo’s elevation to GOD and win a life time’s devotion from me.

However, outside the nihilistic pleadings of my cold-shrivelled soul, Andrew Strauss’ name is once again being mentioned. Within the power struggle of the England dressing room, and I’m not talking about who puts Monty in Andrew Flintoff’s coffin…

...hang on a minute...

NEWS JUST IN

Just read that KP has been sacked. According to the den of lies, the BBC, Pietersen, in his infinite wisdom, Pieterprat issued the ECB with an ultimatum: either I go or Moors does.

Seeing as the season of expanding debt, the ECB decided to go for a two-for-one deal, and sacked the both of them.

The rest of the world was heard to make the following remarks:

“AH HA HA HA HA HA”

What makes this resignation interesting, as well as hilarious, is Pietersen’s reason. He’s not going because he’s useless and has a terrible track record. Oh no. He’s going because he couldn’t get along with some apparently alright bloke.

Napoleon had the same problem. But don’t worry, he came back on fine form.

Anyway,

AH HAH AH AH AH AHAHAHAHAHA

Harmison intervenes with tact and diplomacy

Steven Harmison, long-time complainant of the media, commentators and those who open their mouth before engaging their Id, has shamed them all by his dignified entrance into England’s management fiasco.

In case you have some sort of life with priorities beyond the petty feuds of ECB politics, Kevin Pietersen and Peter Moores don’t get on. It might be something to do with Moores’ denial of KP’s opportunity to lord it over Michael Vaughan like some magnanimous twat. Or it might be something as simple as Captain Fantastic being a disagreeable twat, who can’t get on with anyone. Like a twat.

In any case, the misfiring of their team, despite the sagely advice of Otis the Aardvark, has brought a wave of introspection, self-doubt and, inevitably, wonderfully, beautifully, BLAME.

As all losers know, you can’t spell “You’ve been Ka-Blam-eod!” without blame.

So, the symbol of stability, reliability and mental strength within the England fold, “Steady Steve” Harmison entered the fray. Although, not being Scouse, it reduces writers’ prospects of suggesting he might do this by saying “cam daun, cam daun” and jerk his arms about like a maddy. Although he is sufficiently Northern for this thought to creep into a blogger’s mind, but it impotently sits there, never finding voice for fear of producing an embarrassing and slightly wrong passage.

So anyway, after being interviewed by the BBC World Service, broadcasting his views to every living person with a radio, power source and English-Geordie phrase book, Mahatma Steve has forged peace within the troubled England team.

Peter Moores was heard to say,

“I thought that KP was a right twat, then I heard Harmison’s grating, whiney voice on the radio this morning, and I decided that KP wasn’t so bad after all. There are worse people out there.”

Walter Bagehot, in a second press conference, asked the lanky slip-tester what he had said to calm the warring factions. Harmison replied,

“Oh, not much really. We sportsman have a way with words. I just said, “Hey, guys, just mellow, yeah. Players come and go; both of you are temporary, ephemeral wisps of a whimper. Only Harmy remains constant. Cam daun, cam daun.””

A review of 2008

Right. As my friends illegally break into the random abandoned house marked for demolition in order to have a “cool” venue for New Yearly celebrations, I shall mark the coming of a new period of depressing pish by assessing last year’s disheartening memories.

This task would be aided if I could remember beyond last night, but I shall do my best. In fact, I think my earliest memory is breaking that nice glass in a bar last week.

January started with the usual numbing miseries. The two mega-sides of international cricket, Australia and India, were deciding that there was, actually, only one mega-side. We also worked out that not only Australian players are complete twats.

January also saw a brief feature where I related the performances of certain test teams to the dead animals that I found on the street. As well as the start of the viddy-blog.

In February, things become a little lewd,if philosophical.

March saw the coming of the Great Bum. And the dawning of Age of China.

April, AYALAC got close with Wisden, and even expressed some opinions on its totally sane list of Top Five Cricketers. Let us not forget that some cricket happened too, the incredibly exciting IPL started in April.

In May, the IPL reached new levels of joy known only to a select few of herion wombles. AYALAC also celebrated the great romances playing behind the blog scenes. I was surprisingly accurate with some. My mum also did some reporting for me in Antigua.

June saw the arrival of Alan Twatford, and AYALAC always backed this iniative and felt a bit annoyed that it didn't bleat about it endlessly thus missing out on some serious "I told you sos" come the actual tournament. The summer mouth also witnessed an experimental combination of cricket and horror. And, to my personal horror, I was actually spotted by a fan, on the street...

England continued in their usual style in July. But, I tried not to pay attention, as I was in India, at the time. Plus, much to the delight of all, Robocop started to play for England.

August saw more Wisden action. August had it all, trains, cricket reporting and firings.

The second coming came again in September, as Captain Fantastic showed the way with his magic man milk.

Things got a little creative, too - perhaps a bit too much? And AYALAC was sent to Berlin.

More complaing about Ausies in October. I found out how to enjoy the Twatford League.

November saw some bitterness towards the media, and hilarity and critical changes in the rules of the game.

December, brought lots of chocolates and Gluhwein, as well as more irritation at cricket journalists. The journalists responded by cutting off my access to cricket.

Right, so that's my year. I'm going to head off now. Hopefully, the Germans won't kill me tonight. Judging by the noise out there, I think they're using more gunpower than the Red Army needed to take Berlin.

Australia needs a new scapegoat

As any England fan will tell you, a loss can be attributed to one, or several if they’re feeling particularly brutal, players. Ablate these tumorous influences, and the team’s balance restores to perfection.

Until the next match.

Australia, once again, are on the wrong side of a series rolling-pin attack. (Although, interestingly, the Baggy Green’s decline started at the same time as the Credit Crunch. A bit too much of a coincidence, methinks.)

So, instead of addressing the problems like a rational agent of reason, the Australians now look upon their side’s line-up with the frenzied revisionism known only to deranged lumberjacks.

Matthew Haydon is top of the axe-wielders' list. Mainly because he’s a complete git (I use “complete” deliberately here – he’s a god-bothering, squeaky-clean moron. Every element of his personality offends.)

Somehow Simon Katich and Michael Clarke are still in the Australian team, despite the dawning of the Age of Aquarious. Obviously, they’re useless; but as they’re Australian, that doesn’t seem to effect their performance as much as human beings.

The problem, actually, is the bowling. Specifically Brett Lee. Not his gammy foot, but his general over-rated abilities. He’s pants.

I can hear the shrieks already, like the shrill OMGs shouted out in St. Rodger’s Catholic School for Girls, as the Headmistress finally blocks access to facebook.

As a strike bowler, the leader of the attack, the spear-point’s edge, the rolling-pins round bit, he’s a bit rubbish really. Sure, his record is superior to that of Andy Caddick, but I ask you, in all honesty, does he have the ears for the job?

The rest of the Australian attack, Mr Monkey-Wrench and Mr Spanner, are similarly useless. These tools don’t have the guile or the round-bit to make even the opposition’s number ten go “crickey, I’d rather not face him in a dark alley”

In stead, the tail-enders are thinking, “I hope I meet him in a dark alley, so I take his sweets and maybe force some hair-care secrets out of him.”

In any case, the Australians have found their scapegoat. Once identified, they didn’t mess about, they got down to business and attacked his feet with hammers. Now Lee is removed, the ACB can begin building a new era of Aussie bowling.

Again.

Articles about Monty lack variety

When Luton’s Champion, Monty Panesar, burst onto the international cricket scene, commentators praised the young genius as the saviour of English spinning.

“No more boring, defensive Ashly Giles to “hold up an end”, now we have a proper aggressive bowler.”

There was much rejoicing. Everyone prefers an offensive spinner. Just look at Shane Warne.

Then, nothing changed.

This, for the writers, was sin. Pieces began to suggest that Monty was boring. That he lacked personality. Some insinuated that he was just a dull git that the rest of the team hated.

The journalists looked at their construct of Monty – the people’s lovable hero, capable of winning any match armed with only a reasonably aged ball and a pearl of close fielders – and then they compared this to the reality.

The reality of Monty is just this sort of bloke, you know. In the media world, “normal” means “mind-numbingly, suicidally, OMG BORING!!!1!”

Monty was nothing like his media image. The journalists had sweated greatly in pubs during their conspiracy to “make cricket more interesting” and this effort was unravelled by the Real World.

And they hated him for it.

“Damn you Panesar”, they said

Starting with the removal of his charismatic name, the hacks began to denude Monty of his charm. This allows them to attack the hell out of him without looking like total bastards.

“A bloke called Monty should be more interesting. Dear reader, I demand that you completely change you mind about him. He has not lived up to the potential that his name suggests. You must loathe him now. Do it! Do it because I say!”

Now, the journalists have decided, en masse and without exception, that Monty “lacks variety” this means that he bowls at the same pace. All of a sudden, the world of cricket is gripped by the spinners pace. “Too fast” is the gospel truth of Monty’s bowling speed.

The only variable that affects a spinner’s ability to take a wicket is pace. Fizz, dip, bounce, strategy, or, god forbid, spin are now irrelevant factors in a spin bowlers armoury. If you bowl at 55 mph you go 27 overs without a wicket, if you bowl at 50 mph you will take nine wickets whilst conceding only seven runs.

This seems easy. But, leading on to our next point, they tell us that Monty “lacks guile”. This means that he’s a thicko. Every ball, apparently, is the same as the last. Duh.

Of course, this is the standard’s English spinner’s tactic: bore them out. It worked for Giles and the Great E’s, but, for some reason, when Monty deploys this time-worn approach, we decide that he’s a complete bastard.

So now, the press has decided, en masse and without exception that Monty is boring, predictable and stupid.

With a discipline as subtle and diverse as spin bowling, you think that opinion would vary regarding current exponents. Perhaps they’d be some alternative suggestions: Monty is bowling too slow, for instance?

But no. Everyone knows exactly what the problem is. The journalists know all. Shame they are shit at cricket, really.

(“…but hell, it ain't over till the slim man zings.” Ahem.)

Oh my deary god

Admit it. The only thing you were looking forward to was gloating over Aussies. That’s all you wanted, some small, pathetic slice of Schadenfreude.

You were going to laugh and laugh, and tell the Aussies what feeble worms they were, and that England was the mighty Crow which was going to devour them up come next Ashes.

But all we can do is crow now. Remember, England are a lame, useless, indecisive, unconvincing, dull, predictable, mediocre, ordinary, borderline incompetent bunch of disabled earth grubs who are incapable of rolling down a hill.

England is a small country. But somehow, there is so much to be angry about.

Of course, this is a total disaster, akin to Black Monday, the Battle of Balaklava and the birth of Russell Brand.

The problem England have, at the moment, is that their opponents are better than them. Looking at India’s line up, if you roll them over in the first innings, the law of averages dictate that they’re going to compensate with a legendary effort in the second.

And that they did. Fourth highest run-chase in Asian history, and with six wickets to spare. That old geriatric whose eyes have gone, Old Farther Sachin, fluked a century.

It is important to remind yourself how good this was. Not only were records broken in the fourth innings, but on the last day of a wearing pitch that had shown as much consistency as the German Ministry of Finance.

The bowling of Andrew Flintoff and Monty Panesar is class. And, with England’s new super-weapon, Greame Swanpy, the Indians looked doomed.

But this mega-line-up of nearly, but not quite, dead one-man myths breezed through England’s cream as if it were spread across a thick layer of easy jam upon the Scone of Effortlessness.

Although, that’s not to take anything away from England.

They’re still nothing to me. How can so much anger, by so many, owed to so few?

On happier times, I walked out of my Berlin apartment on Saturday. This is what I saw:

Wronged Radio

Right. First things first. Who turned the cricket off?

Us Englanders in Germany used to follow live cricket over the radio. TMS, it seemed, was available to the entire world.

This was the case yesterday, when I woke up and, as is my want, listened to cricket in bed whilst breakfasting of muesli. A German AND English experience. The cultures are compatible.

Today, these simple pleasures in life, that all of us enjoy, were taken from me as cruelly an abruptly as a Bolivian grabs a child’s hamster to prepare in their dastardly Rodent Gravy.

Instead, I had to listen to BBC “We Don’t Do Adverts, We Only Constantly Spam The Airwaves With Trailers To Programmes You’ll All Probably Hate Anyway” rubbish.

Rubbish.

So, now I’m at work, and, consequently, in my usual angry mood (the Finance Department is being a right pain – but you know how finance people are, right?) following the OBO coverage, but without the usual colour and romance that TMS adds to my mornings.

Oh bastards in the BBC. If you were here, I’d give you a right going over with this pile of invoices and reimbursements claims, I would. Then, and only then, would you realise the wrong you have done.

Next item on the agenda: Graeme Swann, another player who hails from Burkina Faso or wherever, shoved in an England kit, given a few “patriotic” tattoos and thrown into the team. Why oh why, I have no idea. He is not one of my favourites. He, along with KP, Pratty Prior forms England’s Axis of Evil.

I mean, we know all foreigners are terrorists, so why are we letting them in the England side? To ease surveillance?

Anyway, just to cap off my bad mood, he’s only gone and bloody fluked two wickets in his first over of test cricket. Not only does this mean that he’s probably pushed Monty out of the spinner slot for about a year, but apparently, no other decent cricketer has ever done this before.

Why don’t the amazing blokes do amazing things, whereas the dreary, rubbishy geezers breeze through test cricket without a hitch. This explains a lot about the powers of Finance.

Bring Warney home

There’s another hilarious unlikely musical out at the moment. It’s about Shane Warne. How unlikely is that? Hilarious! Ironic musicals. What will they think of next? Deary me.

In any case, there was a report on the BBC this morning about a new musical launching in Melbourne today. The actor, writer and Warneo look-a-like, said he spent three years gathering material.

He didn’t want to make any “cheap shots”. He needed strong, original material that stood on its own; not petty, easy passé jokes at Warne’s expense.

The first song I heard was an aghast chorus proclaiming their shock at the site of Warne jogging.

In any case, as we all know, the Blond Bamboozler is first and foremost a committed German. Germany, and German, culture is very dear to him, especially the food and beer.

So, in honour these profoundly felt roots, I, of AYALAC, call for the musical to be brought before the people of Berlin, so that they, too, might partake in his glory. The glory of the greater German people, still lives on, deep within the gut of one of their most loyal children.

Moores steps bravely into action by lowering expectations

Peter Moores, chief England goon, has stated that England’s preparation to the will-they-won’t-they test series against India has been “less than ideal”.

This is the sort of British understatement that I’m missing in the Land of Chocolate. But, it’s also the sort of ridiculous, parochial drivel that happily assails me no more.

Contrary to England, the Indian team have had a marvellous build-up to the series. Oh wait, we can’t think about people other than ourselves. They don’t have feelings. They’re just cricket-playing machines. Sometimes they go to the toilet. Although, no them has actually publically announced this as fact.

Well, not everyone is an Australian, you know.

Although, you have to commend his “Us/The Foreign” mentality. Tidily bisecting the world into nice, if ineffective Englishman, and dangerous, unpredictable if good at making curries, Foreigners. Or, as they say here, Auslanderen.

(See? I’m learning. I am beginning to understand how people abuse me in bars.)

England are going to lose these series. They’ll play it. Because they’re muppets. (Peer pressure is helping, here, too.) But they’ll lose it, for sure. It’s not because they haven’t prepared well, but because they’re an incompetent horde of melons.

Which has been England’s problem for some years now.

Even their management is struggling to find their line. The team’s security will be fine. Of course, the England team are going to be guarded like a chocolate biscuit in a secretary pool. They still shouldn’t go, mind.

But, they’ve decided to let the individuals, with no expertise or perspective on the matter, to access their own security on the matter. This is a sensible move. We all know how good laypeople are at evaluating their own personal safety.

Why is everything so deeply, deeply awful?

ECB shafts players. Again.

I’m quoting cricinfo, here:

“England's cricketers will not be forced to return to India for the two-Test series, Hugh Morris, the ECB's managing director for England cricket, said as the squad arrived back in London on Saturday evening.”

I am considering putting in a Freedom of Information Request to see which tours players are forced to attend. But, although it seems sensible, the response is a typically spineless, confusing and probably the worst possible announcement for the England players.

I strongly suspect that this position was borne out of Captain Fantastic’s recent comments:

“On a cricket field I might ask people to do things in a certain way but I will never tell people to do anything. A man is a man and he can make his own decisions.”

Which is all very good, but leads to a curious overall position. Presumably, if a player wished to withdraw a normal tour, then the ECB would penalise him in some way. Perhaps drop him from consideration from future tours.

But we must assume that if players’ personal perception of the security situation India is unfavourable, then they do not face this penalty.

But, if a player on the margins takes this opportunity to play for his country, then would the established, backer-outter feel obliged to stay on? Oh, I don’t know. But by shifting the responsibility on to the players, the ECB is buggering up with the careers of its most valuable assets.

It’s a mess. The whole thing is a mess.

In fact, just cancel the tour. I, for one, haven’t enjoyed one moment of it. Well, except for its crushing the will of KP. That’s been fantastic.

But generally, this tour has left me numb.

It’s like the emptiness that you’re left with after you’ve failed, for the second year running, to get into Jenny from Account’s pants at work’s Christmas Party, despite the fact that you managed to get her completely plastic.

Isn’t life great?

England so bad that, even when they scored more runs than the opposition, they lost

As many animal torturers have noted, cricket is a funny game. It’s hard to explain its rules to muggles.

You might say something like: “They idea is to score more runs that your opponent. Then you get pissed.”

Then, along comes the latest England game. England and India both faced 22 overs. India scored 166, England scored 178. Obviously India won.

It’s the unpredictability of the game that makes it so interesting.

However, to their credit, the one quality that England have displayed for many years has been predictability. I lauded the ECB management for its parsimonious approach to altering the team management.

Keeping with the same useless team for the sake of stability was a courageous move. But, then they turned out to be as brave as Ishant Sharma’s moustache.

Then they bugger about with every aspect of the team make-up and lose repeatedly in humiliating fashion.

It would be hilarious if it wasn’t so wrist-cuttingly depressing.

Normally, as a fan, you believe you know more than most sages. And more especially more than team selectors. If push came to shove, however, most people would defer to the “experts”, and let Patrick Moores get his way. “Sure Pete, me ol’ mucker, you’ve won a few Championships. What have I done? Memorised the entire script of 24? That’s nothing. You, mate, are a god.”

But now we know. We all know.

I now know that I am better than them. THIS IS KNOWLEDGE. In fact, the drunken, jobless German that harassed me on my way home yesterday would exhibit greater team-selecting skills than England. And he only had one eye.

Don’t worry though. It’ll all be fine next time. They’re having a Team Meeting.

And we all know from our respective workplaces how productive and motivating Team Meetings are.

It's happening again

Remember the World Cup? Remember how we all enjoyed this vibrant international spectacle, and didn’t complain at all. From the very first, hesitant moment, to crescendo of well-organised joy at the tournament’s climax. Let me take you back to those times.

It was the heady days of 2007. Anything seemed possible. Religious fanatics controlled a superpower. An ex-superpower was killing spies on the street. And sub-prime mortgages were worth more than a stapler.

Throughout the course of the cricket World Cup, I spent my time talking about England (and dancing cricketers). I repeatedly made one point about their approach: OH MY GOD WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU PEOPLE PLAYING AT?

Their approach was this: “See off the first few dangerous twenty overs, and then we’ll consolidate for the next twenty. Perhaps we’ll see where we are after that.”

Against South Africa, we scored four runs in ten overs.

Remember Jamie Dalrymple? Do you remember opening with Ed Joyce? ED JOYCE!

Not even the person that Ed Joyce murdered with an Ed Joyce name badge would remember who Ed Joyce is.*

But, poor old whathisface was subject to the ECB’s wonder strategy of playing for time. Obviously, we got completely humiliated. That goes without saying. We’re English. But there are degrees of loss.

And the inept, spineless, moronic, self-inflicted, thick-headed losses of the World Cup were particularly hard to endure. And now, once again, familiar concerns are returning. You look at the Englanders, and they look at you, blinking and red-skinned, clueless. Utterly clueless. There are, quite literally, without clue. Well, they might have one clue between them, but that’s a rubbish clue that erroneously leads them to Professor Plum.

AKA: Grauieame Swann.

*On further reflection, this victim might struggle to remember quite a few things.

(For those economists, stats geeks, and other bored people, check out the OECD’s new data mapping tool. It’s surprisingly fun. Now I know that New Zealand’s North Island is richer (in per capita terms) than all Australian states, whereas, the South Island is poorer than the lot of them. Interesting that. The IMF one is also worth a check out – although no where near as fun.)

(As another aside, I went to watch the football last night. I don’t normally do this, but England was playing Germany in Berlin, and I felt I should make an effort. So, off I went, with German in tow, to an “Irish” “pub” in central Berlin.

There, I found England.

England in all its glimmering glory. A mirror to the world’s best parts. The parts that sing about wars long since past, about enemies now crippled with anxiety. Parts that try to chat up German women with the worlds Spatch-chen zie Anglaise? Parts that, when you are amused by the loud sweary scousers and huge St. George’s Cross emblazoned with the words like “Darlington” will challenge you with a sharp “Wot yaw smilin’ at?” It’s astonishing how I could live without this cultural assurance, without these people that make us all feel so proud.)

We’re back in business baby

Some of you may have noticed a drop in post frequency recently. To those that did, please consider yourselves a proud owner of a gold star. To those that didn’t, consider yourself official Enemies Of The Glorious AYALAC Peoples.

You see, I now have the internet at home again. This, of course, is excellent because, despite having internet access at work, and despite being paid less than my previous position, I am still manically busy and unable to blog at the office.

So! Now, a new era of AYALAC-rest of the world relations begins. Rejoicing breaks out. Women swoon. Parrots die.

Much has changed since we spoke last.

England lost the rugby. England lost the cricket once. And then once more. An Irish fellah bought an election in the New World. And England will probably lose the football tonight. So, as we can see, the world continues to move as normal.

It’s really great having internet at home. I listened to Today Programme for the first time in ages this morning. I was surprised at the amount of slang British English they used. Shocking, really. But, I was also buoyed by hearing the dulcet tones of Nick Griffin, leader of the British National Party, and also Nick Clegg, leader of some other party. I forget which.

So! Yes. Cricket.

Well, it’s the usual depressing stock for us Englanders. You know that things are bad when you see headlines end in the word “again”. However, to make a series point about actual cricket, I will say this:

For ages, the test side has shown that stability in selection has resulted in improved results. Of course, illness and injury can and have taken their toll, but overall, it seems that England do better when England know who England is. Yet, conversely, the ODI side has been all over the shop.

Pick a player here. Pick a player there. Stick him in as an opener. Pick a team with three batsman. Put him at eight. Kill all the spinners. It has been a progressive, morphing chaos for years now. So, it seems eminently sensible to me that now, the ECB has decided to draw the line and let the “current” team settle for a bit. Enough, say they, is enough.

And you know what? Bugger me, if I don’t agree with the England management. Heck, give them all medals, say I. Nay, OBEs!

To all this talk of “Bell and Prior aren’t working” and “drop Collingwood, pick Smode” and the “let’s drop him to 10 and promote him to 5” and all the rest of it, to this I say this: Stop it. Just leave them alone. It’s the best of all possible worlds. It’s time to start pretending that we’re New Zealand.

We’re not in Kansas any more.

We're in Berlin. Where we're about to launch an attack on allied German-English hooligans. Come on you rioters!

Sweeping generalisations affect cricket teams everywhere

In a surprising development, all the cricket teams in the world have began to generalise about everything.

Tony Sporkington, captain of the Upper Schleswig-Holstein XI, and therefore representative of the entire cricketing community stated,

“I woke up one morning, and had a strong urge to project my nonsensical values onto the entire world. I rolled over, to consult my wicket-keeper, stumpers have a special perspective on these things, and, blow me! He had the same problem!”

Australians, Belgians, Bhutans, Bolivians, Bosnians, Bulgarians, Burkinans, Indians, Romanians and even Americans all felt the same thing. On the same morning. At the same time.

Peter Mandyson, a surprisingly well-informed journalist from Venezuela stated,

“Look. The future is, like, always like the past, right? So, we can expect India to dominant for at least eleven years in international cricket. Despite the fact that all their players are about to retire or riddled with arthritis, they’re going to be the new Australia. Yeah?”

His moderately attractive wife, John, added:

“Yes. Australia will become the new England: annoying and whiney. Whereas England are set to the new Bermuda: rubbish, but trusting all in their largest player.”

The global community concurred.

Australia: HA!

I would say I was sorry for the long silence. But I’m not. I’m glad.

So. First thing’s first: Australia are unbelievably useless. We always knew it, but only today has it become a tangible truth.

Nevertheless, this is a special moment for all peoples everywhere

It is wonderful. Truly fantastical and delightful and perfect.

You know why?

I bet you don’t. You look a bit thick in the brain department, so I’ll tell you.

This is a wonderful moment not just because the Australians lost in such a comprehensive, feeble, weak, humiliating fashion. Oh no. It’s because they whinged all the way down the plug hole.

There is much talk of the Indians being “unsporting” by ensuring that Australia couldn’t win. What these means in English exactly, I’m not entirely sure. I can only assume that Australians are now “playing fair” and, presumably, beginning to play by the spirit of the game.

Although a match fine for a slow over rate undermines this claim slightly, Ricky Bunter claimed that he acted in the best interests of test cricket. How we can translate this from the incomprehensible logic that prevails in the Australian captain’s mind to common reason, is known only to a select group of ACB mind melons.

One can only assume that, in Bunting’s head, he is a knight in shining leather, defending the ancient institutions from evil (and Indian) onslaught. Only Australians truly understand the game. They are good, if simple, people.

All this guff, coupled with the bleating, makes this defeat especially sweet. Obviously, 2005 was good. But the Australians deluded themselves believing their loss resulted from bad luck. But, in this series, their rank incompetence is public and undeniable.

So, how do they respond?

By insinuating that the Indians cheated! AAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

This is one of the best moments of my life. We are witnessing the breaking of a test team. AAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

England beaten by huge margin at the hands of stars

According to AYALAC’s refined methodology of re-weighting a team’s score by using irrelevant criteria, England lost to the star-peppered Trinidad and Tobago yesterday.

And by buggery did they lose big.

D. Charlton asked a cutting question recently (it was, I admit, hard to find sense in a fog of misguided comments). He asked:

“How many runs to England need to score to beat T&T tonight - before a ball is bowled?”

Well, let’s see. T&T’s land area is 1,980 square miles, and, as we saw yesterday, England is 50,351 square miles.

So, by my reckoning, the first ball of the match needed to be a no-ball, from which, England would proceed to run a relative modest 3,335 over-throws.

After achieving this, only then could England consider winning.

But, once again, our boys in whatever colour it is their advertisers have chosen for them these days, have failed us. And failed us bad.

By my recalibrated understanding of “the rules” England lost by 3,499 runs. Once again, not only did the opposition manage to chase down England’s total of 141 after just two balls, but they proceeded to put on a sensational show of hitting just to entertain the crowd and certain deluded parts of my mind.

What a victory by the young men from two islands whose names both begin with the letter “T” – what are the chances of that! After such a strurpling win under their belts, success, wealth and many, many women will surely come their way.

For England (and a small, rubbishy part of South Africa) this day will live in infamy. INFAMY.

Bit of England beaten by the rest of England

The Allen Twatford league has started recently.

The “All-stars” (containing, by my count, exactly two stars) beat Trinidad and Tobago (who have three stars).

Middlesex, spurred on by its greatest member, Twickenham, only just lost to the bullying efforts of all the rest of England combined. You might say that it was unfair. So, being the failed statistician that I am, I would like to correct the imbalance using mathematics.

Middlesex is 282 square miles and its population totals 1,576,636, of whom 738,904 are males.

England, on the other hand, is 50,351 square miles, with a population of 49,138,831 (let’s say 49% of them are male: 24,078,027).

England is 179 times bigger than Middlesex, and 32 times more populace (in terms of males).

So, using high level statistical theory that none of you would understand, we can adjust for this difference, to reveal the actual result:

England (122) lost to Middlesex (19,511) by 19,389 runs.

Not only did the London side surpass the England score with ease, but that added nearly twenty thousand more runs just for good measure.

This, I think we’ll all agree, is a much more accurate way of measuring the relative disparities in sides, and should be rolled out to all real statisticians forthwith.

Bangladesh robbed by bad luck (and skill)

I know I’m preaching to the converted, but do you see? DO YOU SEE?

Do you see why test cricket is the best form of the game?

Bangladesh aren’t great, but they are improving. And they have some players that might even get into a Twickenham eleven. Given a few injuries.

Occasionally, they are capable of some Steve Tikolo-like efforts. Mohammad Ashraful has put in some impressive knocks, and some of their fans have strong opinions.

Now, Shakib Al Hasan, has burst onto the scene like a meaty porn star, and made a complete mess of the New Zealand boys. Those caps don’t look so black now.

Shakib scronked nine wickets in the match. Which, by most people standard’s, is pretty good. By Australian standard’s, that’s amazing-incredible-do-you-want-a-passport-mate?

Yet, AND YET, New Zealand are nevertheless, the better side. Look at them. Alright, they’re a scruffy bunch of Oasis-wannabes, but they have been playing cricket for a while now.

And, lead by their spin bowling captain genius Mr Trousers, the Kiwis absorbed the fright, recovered and forced an unflustered victory.

If this was a one-dayer, we’d be heralding an unexpected, if unsatisfying upset. If it was a twenty20, we’d be staring at the ceiling whilst our partner snored away.

Yet, the ups and downs, the interplay of luck and, ultimately, the skill were all allowed to entertain us.

“Yeah.” You might be thinking, “So what? I know this, and you always go on about tests.”

Ha. But, you’ll notice the gratuitous Steve Tikolo mention. Clever that.

Why Warne should come back

Because it would be flipping hilarious.

Flipping hilarious say I!

Australia worse than England?

Australia’s spineless defeat to someone else reminded other island folk of England’s own feckless folding facilities.

Allow the opposition batsman to batter you to Scotland and back? No problem. The cream of your line-up intimidated by the scariness/weirdness of the opposition’s bowlers. Be my guest. Fill your covers with immobile old men? After you, old bean.

The Australian defeat will be treated by the more generous and open minded of us with even-handed hoots of laughter. By to those of us who are partisan, and embittered by years of pain and humiliation at the hand of the Ozzie Boomerang of Nastiness, it is cause for a three-day sicky and national celebration.

The only problem with that last part, is that the nation I currently find myself has no idea what I’m talking about. (They have language difficulties over here.)

A lot was written after the 2005 Ashes. Most of it was wrong. People said that the series defeat marked a return of normalisation in international cricket, a resurrection in parity and possibly, just possibly, the homecoming of interesting cricket.

If you thought that the Ozzlers were bastards before 2005, you had no idea of the meaning of the word after the Australians unleashed a furious attack on the world and common decency. All hell broke loose. And they won a lot of games.

So, after the Aussies impending doom in the sub-continent, one wonders what next for the world?

There are two possibilities: one, the Aussies get even nastier. Two, their slide continues, and stop playing Bangladesh as things are “getting a bit embarrassing.”

Actually, there are about a jillion possibilities. The entire team could turn into purple umbrellas and form a boy band that “rocks for peace”.

Anyway, the central point remains:

AAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Dr No beats up that nasty witch from Sleeping Beauty

India are doing quite well against Australia. Theoretically, this shouldn´t be surprising. Australia are pretty useless at the moment. But, as we all know, that fact rarely results in their losing.

Nevertheless, the two evil sides of world cricket are slugging it out. The Ozzlers are evil because they just are. And India are evil because they are trying to take over the world. At least all the Aussies wanted to do was piss all over it.

That, I could take.

The fact that in every “Irish” bar in Europe, there are at least three Australian males complaining about people “back home” is as bad as the Ozzy Offensive got. But, if the Indians get their way, every visit to a bar will result in serious food poisoning.

Seeing as cricket is “scripted” now, we can assume that the baddies are battling it out for a final, epic face-off against the goodies. In this case, this is England.

It´s irrevelant that the goodies are a useless sack of disabled potatoes right now. Just look at Rocky. My Aunty Derrida´s cat boxes better than Rocky, and she´s been dead for twelve (both my relative and her cat – it was a tragic, if surreal accident).

The point being, rubbishness does not prevent glory. So, if the Hollywood rules of drama apply, we can expect England to eventually overcome the victors in this show-down, through a tense, if unlikely series of events.

Then England will get to Rodger the girl. Who, in this case, will be Keira Knightley.

(You may be interested to hear that I went to school with above film bint. Apparently, she had a thing for me. But I had to say no. We simply don´t share the same tastes in skirts.)

Weird Food

Whilst some people might be distracted by juvenile competitions between minnow pretenders, the real title for the international cricketing crown is being decided in the Western hemisphere – commonly known as the “right, if left a bit” hemisphere.

That’s right, Zimbabwe and Canada, the two titans of the global stage, are slugging it out like steroid fuelled baddies on a particular gruesome episode of Power Rangers.

It’s a pretty ugly fight. Such is its scale, innocent bystanders such as Sri Lanka and Pakistan are feeling the inexorable pull of the awesome combat. It’s the Second Second World War.

Many foolish people, thought that India was the evil Dr No of the cricket world. They’re after money; they’re after your money. Watch them. They’ve become the new Australians, in that respect.

Oh, but this is beguilement. North America is where we should direct our paranoia. Canada is trying to cash in on our little game. Not only by holding pointless tournaments to crack open a market already cold and sated with cheap, homebrew maple syrup, but by bringing in cash cow Zimbabwe.

Zimbabwe’s money-making potential is limitless given that almost all Zimbabweans are trillionaires. Except those that hold their assets in Swiss bank accounts, those fellows aren’t doing nearly as well.

So yes, Canada, in a moneyed axis with Zimbabwe are up to something. And if we don’t stop them, and stop them hard, they’ll take over without us even noticing.

Just heard this quote on the radio: “English is the natural language of the human being.” Germans, take note.

Irish man goes crazy, people stand by

Kevin O’Brian (no relation to Chief O’Brian off Star Trek) felt the Guinness flow through his brain and the boggy peat of home course through his blood today. He went ape when they told him he was playing against Kenya.

“Ah to be sure, I don’t mind ‘em.”

Then, he saw them, and got really mad.

“Ah, dere’s only one green-clad lookin’ bunch o’ eedjets in dis world. And tit t’istn’t not gunna’ be us.”

Before people had chance to work out what he was talking about, he scored a run an Irish ball century, eventually hitting 171 off 215.

This included 12 sixes that was described by the probably dead Formula One commentator, Murray Walker as,

“OOOOOOOOOOUT-standing.”

Kenya, by contrast, are hopeless.

This saddens me. Back in the day, I used to live there. Heck, Kenya even gave part of the right good education I enjoy today.

Yeah, their administration is Italian-esque. And every one looks like a muppet next to Steve Tikolo. But come on, people, Kenya is great. They have tigers there and stuff. Let’s make sure that they win.

And to ensure this, I call for all my East African readers to head to Gymkhana Ground at Nai-robbery, find the Irish dressing room, and leave some open bottles of whiskey outside their windows. Don’t spend too much on it. Remember, they’re Irish.

They’ll sniff it out quickly enough.

This should redress the balance a little (either that, or give those bog-trotters greater powers still) and heighten Kenya’s chances of progressing to the ICC’s Baby Boo Boo League.

Finally, people have come to their senses

At last, someone is placing personal interests over collective benefit. Some dodgy company I’ve never heard of, has threatened to bring down the entire Stanford circus, unless it gets its way.

Brilliant.

This company, Dulux, or something, came out of nowhere and insisted that it should receive all the proceeds to the up-and-coming Caribbean shambles. Apparently, they're the official paint of the West Indies team, and got the House of Lords to agree to their insane demands.

Lord Denning, in his judgment, stated,

“There shall be no whitewash in the cricket.”

Previously, Allen Wankford had argued that the Windies’ sponsors were nothing more than weenies. When the Dulux Dog (team mascot and number three) heard this, he was said to be livid.

“I’m livid, me.”

But now things have resolved themselves with the natural ease of most problems in a free market economy. Bastardford held a jubilant press conference after the compromise was hammered out:

“I have wired a huge amount of money to the Dulux Dog. He has accepted this gesture with the kindness with which it was given, and now we will proceed to walk over all those who stand before us.”

Let’s delude ourselves further

There are some difficult questions in life – how many times does a person need to sneeze before the need to say “bless you” dissipates. I reckon it’s about three consecutive sneezes, any more and you need to wait until the fit is over, whereupon you can say something hilarious like, “going for the record, eh?”

Another toughie might be: Michael Clarke – what’s that all about?

Michael Clarke has a dicky tummy. He’s in India. And people are worried about this. He’s in India, people, India.

Anyway, let me formulate an answer to my original question. Michael Clarke, Shane Watson and all of their ilk, although universally recognised as rubbish, still take runs, steal catches and sport womanly good hair. But they are nevertheless essentially crap.

This is the sort of thing that you need to tell yourself when the Ozzlers pulverise your childhood heros again, pounding them into a crusy, lump dust that floats uncomfortably up your nose.

Let’s look at these players:

- Matthew Hayden
- Michael the Hussey
- Stuart Clark

The list is ended. I put it to an Australian that I met in a bar in Berlin’s red light district, that these players are essentially crap, but it’s only their complete bastardliness that results in success.

His response wasn’t especially cogent. He started mumbling about how England were dead lucky in 2005 and why hasn’t she got the clothes, she needs them, I mean look at her. And, to emphasise how strongly he felt about this, he knocked over his oversized beer all over me.

That’s how Australians feel about the rest of the world. Foreigners are to be treated with poorly co-ordinated contempt, no matter how legless you are.

Let’s delude ourselves further

There are some difficult questions in life – how many times does a person need to sneeze before the need to say “bless you” dissipates. I reckon it’s about three consecutive sneezes, any more and you need to wait until the fit is over, whereupon you can say something hilarious like, “going for the record, eh?”

Another toughie might be: Michael Clarke – what’s that all about?

Michael Clarke has a dicky tummy. He’s in India. And people are worried about this. He’s in India, people, India.

Anyway, let me formulate an answer to my original question. Michael Clarke, Shane Watson and all of their ilk, although universally recognised as rubbish, still take runs, steal catches and sport womanly good hair. But they are nevertheless essentially crap.

This is the sort of thing that you need to tell yourself when the Ozzlers pulverise your childhood heros again, pounding them into a crusy, lump dust that floats uncomfortably up your nose.

Let’s look at these players:

- Matthew Hayden
- Michael the Hussey
- Stuart Clark

The list is ended. I put it to an Australian that I met in a bar in Berlin’s red light district, that these players are essentially crap, but it’s only their complete bastardliness that results in success.

His response wasn’t especially cogent. He started mumbling about how England were dead lucky in 2005 and why hasn’t she got the clothes, she needs them, I mean look at her. And, to emphasise how strongly he felt about this, he knocked over his oversized beer all over me.

That’s how Australians feel about the rest of the world. Foreigners are to be treated with poorly co-ordinated contempt, no matter how legless you are.

Laugh at the Australians and their hopeless spinners

AH AHAHAHA

This rotational Antipodean incompetence brings back warm jolly memories.

Australians are absolutely, totally, comprehensively, hilariously useless at spinning. That their best spinners are part timers - one a Somerset lad, another a bloke more interested in fishing than cricket - only adds to international mirth.

Of course there’s a lot of joyous Schadenfreude to be had in their Sheisse bowlers. Naturally, it doesn’t matter how terrible their players are, the Australians will always win anyway.

Right. Let’s rate the Ozzies’ finest:

Bryce McGain – the sum total age of his body parts is equal to that of the Black Forest. He’s injured at the moment. I haven’t confirmed that this is his current status, but his permanent condition is of some degree of invalidity.

Jason Krejza – Not only does this bloke have a rock ‘n roll name, but viewing his stats is like ascending a stairway to heaven. That is, if heaven is full of massive spinner-bludgeoning titans. In a word: HA! In more: AAAAHAHAHAHAAH!

Now we come to the real snorters:

Cameron Biscuit - Originally from the Clark’s Village in Street, this Somerset lad turned evil, and joined the dark side. And then, after leaving Gloucestershire, he hooked up with the Ozzies. Whilst he played in the English county leagues, he topped the averages of spinners that weren’t Mushtaq Ahmed.

Andrew Brummie - Another Turn-Coat, this man has, for some reason, put countless world attacks to the sword. How this is, I’m not sure. Worse still, he’s a spinner that sometimes bowls medium pace. What sort of monster this thing is, I’m not sure. But, I suppose this strange ogre is from Birmingham. So, I suppose it sort of makes sense. Ewwwww.

Anyway, the point is this:

Laugh and jeer at the Australians. Do it now. Do it before they grind your side into the dust with their feckless bowlers.

Cricket: now the Australians are doing it

The English and German cricket seasons are at an end. This is obviously very sad.

But it’s ok, because the international season is taking over. So, for fans of the County Championship, it’s more of the same: Australians battering seven shades of sauerkraut out of everyone else.

Apparently, they’re going to play India again. The reason for this is nothing to do with money. India is an uncorrupted country, still battling for the purity of the game.

The Australians are just along for the ride.

So, obviously this serious is too close to the last one. The sides are more of less unchanged. Although, the Indians are taking some forward steps by picking Sourav Ganguly – known to the world as Mr Giggles.

Australian coach and chief book-maker, Dringo Wallaroorodger, was over-heard to say,

“We’re playing these bastards again. Oh Christ, what do they think we are? Trained apes?”

Of course this is going to be a disappointment. Remember the Ashes after 2005? That was a right proper rubbish series. The Australian were just a push over.

Northern Monkies steal Championship

No one saw it coming. Not even God.

Especially not God.

But Durham pipped Nottinghamshire at the post yesterday, beating them, and Somerset, to be crowned First Ever Pikies To Win Anything.

So congratulations are in order to the Peoples of the North. There are some redeemable features there.

In more interesting news. I am sitting in a minimalist apartment in Berlin. It’s a bit rubbish, but I’m moving in with an Australian tomorrow. God alone knows what will happen. And, as we’ve already established, He’s rarely a reliable guide.

I ordered my first ever meal in German today. Felt very proud. Only, I didn’t feel so clever when I could specify how cooked I’d like my steak, so they provided it traditional German tough as old boots style.

“Das war gut” lied I.

Rubbishness is the theme of my move it seems.

So far, little sign of cricket in Germany. Rest assured however, when I find it, and I will find it, you will hear of its existence first.

[In other mad news, blogger’s gone all German on me. Ooh eer missus.]

Name That Bum #16: Answer

Well, I have been stunned and shocked alike in this week's Name That Bum.

I thought I'd picked the the hardest one of all time, and then along come a Mister D. Barry, and ruins all those evil plans of mine. The answer was, of course, Steve Tikolo.

David Barry's first guess hit the mark. Made almost immediately, he correctly answered the hardest Name That Bum in history. So difficult was this week's bum, that there was virtually no other entrants.

The only explanation for this is witchcraft. David Barry, you are clearly a witch.

Tune in next week, to reveal more blogging demons and see if you can.... NAME THAT BUM.

Name That Bum # 16

Bit of a nightmare on Bum Street this week.

Usual rules. Usual prizes: some amazing ahtwork in the winner's honour and the love of a thousand beautiful women. Usual stuff.

Bum the ONE

Good luck, and good bumming.

Kolpaks sent packing

Alright! That’s what I’m talking about!

Finally, people have decided to listen to the BNP, and keep the English county league for the English. Out with those nasty foreigners.

A report in today's Daily Telegraph claims that the ECB is set to eradicate the Kolpaks and throw a tightened overseas player policy into the mix. To quote:

“Pending any unforeseen loopholes in EU law, any player not holding a British or EU passport will need to have played five Tests or 15 one-day internationals in the preceding two years (the final criteria have yet to be agreed, but must not be over-discriminatory) in order to be signed by a county. That way, the quality of imports goes up (counties can still sign overseas stars) while their numbers come down.”

This is an interesting move, and I the Twickeneese Panopticon, didn’t see it coming. This may be a little short sighted: consider the West Indies greats of the old, who learnt a lot of their cricket in an English county. It is not naïve to suggest that England is still an important supplier and polisher of international cricket talent.

It’s a bit like Sandhurst, only with less grooming of blood-thirsty dictators to be.

I have long hated this Kolpak business. It’s cheating, to be honest.

The reason that it was brought about is not due to globalisation or Evil Germans, but the enhancement of county cricket’s quality and the greater intensity that this demands. Given the heaps of counties out there, there is simply no way that weedy bumpkinshires could produce the required number of nut-case, Aussie wannabies.

So they turned to the next available source of bastardliness: South Africa.

But, as with any market, once a shock has been absorbed, the system will be re-structured and, I suspect, some losers will be eaten up, or fall off completely.

The collapse of certain county sides was perhaps the ECB’s original intention when they bisected the championship. It’ll be sad for some. But, I’ll certainly cheer once some of the smaller, more pointless clubs, like Surrey, finally get the chop.

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.

Bangladesh all messed up: blame the Indians

Thank the Lord for the BCCI. Now that Bangladesh’s national team has been set back by about a decade, we can all content ourselves that the Tigers never need tour India.

Phew.

Some might say that the Bangladesh Cricket Board are also partly to blame for this. They banned the 13 rebel players from all national and international cricket for ten years. This isn’t really because of Indian pressure, but because of the comments of former Tiger captain, Habibul Bashar:

“Screw you, hippies.”

So now the 13 are off to live a life-style of opulence and isolation. It’s funny how those things usually go side by side.

Meanwhile, the Bangladeshi side is completely buggered. And for this, I blame India. No one, specific India is to blame. I’ve met a few. Some of them are nice. Some.

The intransigence of the BCCI and its failure to pursue a sensible policy towards the ICL is beginning to have serious, and long-term effects for the game. Sure, a few old duffers can quietly see out their days in a moneyed segregation, but it’s the whole-sale importing and out-casting of national sides that becomes problematic.

Weirdly, the BCCI accepted the logic of the ICL. They have suddenly realised what a jolly good idea twenty20 cricket. So why can’t they get along nicely, merge their leagues and stop buggering up cricket.

THINK OF THE CHILDREN.

Pakistan turn to the Windies

Yes, it got that bad.

After India, Sri Lanka and wussey Oceanic nations said no, Pakistan finally turned to the fat kid, and said, “West Indies, I pick you.” And then added “I suppose.”

No one is sure whether even the ugly, fat kid will get involved in Pakistan’s increasingly pooey team.

The WICB website doesn’t seem to have registered the proposal. Its last news item is dated in July. Apparently, nothing has happened to the entire region during the summer.

The proposition is an interesting test of sociological convention: which is more dangerous, downtown Islamabad or uptown Kingston?

It’s a tricky one, but hopefully, armed with bat-like clubs and full body protection, the Windies are tooled up to hit the streets and get involved in some serious action.

I say that excitedly, although the only action that the West Indies busy themselves with is of the “rear guard” kind. And rarely with much commitment then.

You rather feel that Pakistan has been buoyed by the BCCI’s bolshiness, and attempted similarly bullying of the world. The world, though, realising that Pakistan is a dodgy backwater, simply say, “farty pants.” And all goes tits up.

Talking of tits us, seen Herr Warne’s recent comments? HA!

Every Blog

Sorry it has been so long in posting. I’ve been really busy recently.

Isn’t life rubbish?

So, I was, like, sitting in front of the telly, with a cup of tea, watching the latest match, and then I suddenly realised how huge his collar bones are. It just ain’t natural!!!

And the umpires! What do they think they were playing at?? I mean really! Isn’t it obvious to everyone, in this day and age, after so much failed and successful experimentation, what technology’s place in cricket should be. Isn’t it obvious!/?#?

So, this bloke, he got a few runs. Which was totally outrageous because he sported a pretty hideous goatee. What is it with cricketers and their suspect facial hair ambitions?

Thankfully, he got out. And then some total goon walked in and was like, “I’m Mr Forward Defensive.” What’s his problem? Self esteem issues?!!!1!1?

Right. Let’s get to specifics. England. What’s that all about? They keep on promising and promising and promising. But what do they give. What do they really give? Don’t ask me. I don’t know anything.

Australia. Bor-ring! This is about as tedious as the time when I had to conduct a time and motion study of a paint-drying observation group.

When will people see that there is a perfectly simple solution to dealing with Australia. Why don’t they get on with it! I mean, really! Why does no one else see this? It’s so clear!11

India. Don’t get me wrong, and many people do, but what exactly is the BCCI’s objective? What’s it really up to? Don’t ask me11111 I don’t know anything.

Name That Bum #15 Answer

We finally received a correct answer to the latest Name That Bum. It was, of course, Les Ames.

Congratulations to the highly talented David Barry, who, not for the first time, proved his worth in a bare-fisted bum-to-bum smack down.

In recognition of this great achievement, I honour him with this Epic Poem:

Oh David, David Barry
You make me, oh so very happy

With you, and you bum-
Spotting ability

It is quite a boon,
To have such a proclivity,

But it is unique,
In its creativity,

That such a geek,
Has such a capability,

Tune in next week to see if you can... NAME THAT BUM!

Graham Pooch

There once was an animal that attracted so many Google hits, that his shameless creator couldn’t help but capitalise on the surprisingly viral market. Today we look at the life and works of Graham Pooch.

As a young pup he learnt his trade in the Kent Kennels.

He developed a reputation for a tough, dogged approach, which won him favour with the local top dogs.

He was eventually selected for the English Shepdogs. First, he was sent in for night-watch duty, but he began in paw form.

Later, he enjoyed the many runs and walks that came his way. He was insatiable – like a dog with a bone. This was rewarded with his elevation to leader of the pack, a position in which he used to expunge cattish players.

Now he is an old dog, relegated to sniffing around the fringes. But his bark is worse than his bite as he is liable to bite off more than he can chew.

New Number Two Aims to Gun Down Opponents

That’s right. Currently second place Somerset are still on target to smash all those who stand in their way to take the County Championship.

In a recent statement, Somerset captain Justy Langer said,

“What’s the difference between Somerset and a homicidal transvestite hell-bunt on destroying on particular Midlands counties and the world more generally? Lipstick.”

However, recent years have provided controversy. Although it is content to enjoy rural isolation, it has been thrust into national awareness through uncertainty in the current climate. Indeed, many of Somerset’s off-spring have been caught up in unfavourable attention in recent times.

The glamorous county is currently engaged in a tussle with Durham, a frosty wasteland of limited note. The battle has seen fierce support fro Somerset’s fanatical and slightly frightening fans, who have been heard chanting,

“Drill them! Drill them! Drill them! We want to drive large, fuel inefficient cars over them!”

This might seem a little jingoistic, but frankly Durham are on a bridge to nowhere. Somersetians are generally pro-life, except when they have guns, in which case, they think it’s fine to cause havoc.

By the way, as I am unemployed, I would appreciate it if anyone could give advice as to whether it is possible to make money from a website. Or, for that matter, any sort of money.

Cricket with Balls is OLD

Can you remember what you were doing this time last year? More of the same, only with more hope?

This guy was founding a new global franchise and has used it to take over the internet.

He now has a million sites. Some of those follow useless domestic sides, others back hopeless local teams. Variety is the key word in CWB.

Occasionally, you might see some nudity. So go there. Go there now now!

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.”