What England can do about being shit

Everyone, at one point in their life, has looked themselves in the mirror and thought "nope, shit".

Even those that haven't, and want to "excel" and "achieve", usually go on to become generally regarded as "shits".

So, now comes a reflective moment for the England cricket team, and all they can see is shit. Puddles and puddles of gooey, poorly bonded shit.

People criticise the critics: "why must you be so critical?" say they. Well, here's the official AYALAC guide for being less shit:

1. Bowl as if you had played before

To become good at something you either need to pay someone else to do it for you, or to practice. England broke the record for the worst bowling performance ever in Port of Spain - second most extras conceded in an innings.

Apparently, in a list the worst bowling performances ever, England feature in over 40% of them.

I know. I did an excel spreadsheet. That's how you make blogging look like work - for you amateurs out there. In any case, this statistic is a sign. Rather like an omen of the second coming, a shitty sign.

2. Get rid of the rubbishy players in bring in less rubbishy ones

No really, it works.

3. Rule the team with an iron fist

England's main problem is the emergence of a private life for the players. That the players think of something other than cricket has become "acceptable" is not only a sign of weakness in the ranks, but indicative of the broader corruption of society generally.

Sex lives of all players must cease. For the good of the country.

A threat of mutilation for dropping averages wouldn't go amiss, either.

4. Cheat

England, for too long, have played fair, following the spirit of the laws and generally behaved in the cricketing way. It's time to follow Australia - not to Australia, obviously, who'd want to do that? Horrible place; full of spiders. No, we must relearn the science of cheating.

This goes beyond the dark arts of Murray Mints and jelly beans, we have to start thinking about creative use of the equipment at hand. After all, the cricket bat originally started life as a weapon.

We must use the resources available to us to prevent the opposition from freely scoring runs, or from running freely.

5. Replace the team with robots

By my reckoning, its four years since the mysterious Merlyn came into being. Which makes is qualified for the England team. That it can't run or operate effectively in the field only marginally disadvantages it against players such as Owais Shah.

It is claimed that the machine can bowl every ball known to man, which is some claim; there are a lot of men and therefore a lot of balls.

Although the inevitable mechanisation of the England bowling unit leads us to interesting possibilities: perhaps the future is all about technology in cricket.

Maybe we'll witness giant bowling guns fire 500 mph death balls at Mega-Slogotron 5.0; gawp at stratospheric sixes; and delight in lighting quick catches in continental-sized fields.

Although watching a batbot getting hit in the robo-goolies would be significantly less amusing.

Name That Bum #17: Answer

The answer to yesterday's tricky bum was, of course, that man Shoaib Akhtar. Here is His Bummliness in full flight: The winner was Spigot of 2.4 children fame. Well done to him, and here's his financial crisis themed reward:

Oh Mister Spiggles,
You are a god,
Like Botham or Biggles,
Or Unkie J Rod,

From you, insipration flows
To a high level of prob.
Presumably, though,
You still have a job

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

Name That Bum #17

Back after surprisingly high levels of demand, I once again implore you all to name that bum.

Usual rules apply. In case you've forgotten those: ones guess per comment; the winner gets something nice from me. No, really, they do.

Good luck, and good bumming.

English stole cricket from the Belgians

Ah. Belgium. Any society that produces such fine beer, such fine chocolates and a multitude of incomprehensible red tape is ok by my standards. It’s definitely one of my favourite countries, although comes a poor second to Finland when going abroad.

The Belgians have spent most of their history being forgotten by their neighbours. However, they have spent their time wisely, by creating a number of world-changing inventions: chips, Tintin, and now, it has been recently revealed, cricket.

The claim originates from an obviously fake poem from the 16th century which refers to "kings of crekettes" and “wickettes”.

Apparently, being bored out of their skulls by living in Belgian, the inventors of this fine game left for England where upon, a dubious BBC website article claims, they went to university to launch Stanford-style marketing weeze that took the country by storm.

The obvious weakness in this argument that Belgians don’t have the mental capacity for university, so we can quickly uncover the story as a fake.

Cricket was, in fact, invented by Muhammad Ibn Arabi in 1195, somewhere in Northern Africa. It was believed to have started when, after dispatching a camel in a particularly savage style, the Arabic poet had nothing left to better with his enormous “Grāy-ničoułs”, and therefore used the stocks from a nearby orphanage.

Eventually, it became more practicable to use smaller objects that are easier to throw and squirm less.

The game became popular with the higher class rats, who would winter in England. Proving that no pleasure goes unpunished, the rodents also brought with them the Black Death, which wiped out a third of the British population and leaving the survivors badly disfigured.

This is where the phrase “short square leg” comes from.

The problem with Belgians is their low profile. Remember any famous Belgians? Well, you might, but they certainly aren’t famous. And if they are famous, they probably originate from England.

So none of that smart Alecery thank you very much.

Not converting enough double hundreds

Sure, the English batsman are treading water, they’re just about doing enough, but are they delivering what we need?

Andrew Strauss has again demonstrated England’s lack of mental fortitude by failing to knock off a double hundred after scoring a lowly big hundred.

Large centuries might be enough at county level, and they might just about secure your place in an already complacent line-up, but we’re playing test match cricket now, and opportunities need to be taken.

Especially these days, when pitches have as much threat in them as my toothless, octogenarian nan after her third gin and tea. Frankly, there’s no excuse.

The jump from an imposing, but not necessarily decisive 142 to a certain match-winning 200 is small. Just 58 runs. Not an impossible gap to bridge. Look, I just did it on my keyboard:

142 + 58 = 200

Giving the simple arithmetic involved, an accountant like Andrew Strauss should know better than succumbing to an irresponsibly low score.

I am disappointed in you.

At least young Cooky had the decency to play for the team and whack a quick fifty.

Alan Stanford: International Super Villain

Obviously, everyone knew this already. Just look at the teeth.

And his attempt to destroy cricket didn’t win too many fans amongst the cricketing fraternity. Although, it improved his standing in BCCI Towers.

Alan Stanford has been accused on non-transparent practices in dealing with clients' investments. They they thought their investments were being held in liquid assets, but, in fact, they were ploughed into property. Outside the world of finance this is called “lying”. The chief investment officer instructed staff to not inform investors about Stanford’s investment practices, as it “wouldn’t leave an investor with a lot of confidence”.

The classic signs of financial fraud were apparent for all to see: “off-shore financing” is another way of saying “I’m stealing your money”; Stanford has had his banking licence in Montserrat revoked for dubious dealings; smooth year-on-year returns; and law enforcement investigations since the early nineties. Even before the SEC accused him of an $8 billion “massive ongoing fraud” the US tax authorities were trying to recover $104,236,285.85 federal tax lien.

Now there is possible exposure to the Bernard Madoff Ponzi scheme, alleged connections to gulf gangsters and 30,000 investors have unsuccessfully sought to get their money back. Hilariously, he went on the run, and was eventually tracked down to (one of) his girlfriend’s house in Virginia. Which was also the area that Robert E. Lee conducted his last desperate rear-guard action before surrendering to the inevitable encircling of reality.

Stanford’s dad has come out to say that he thinks he’s a good guy, so I suppose that makes it ok.

Of course, it would be a bit smug of me to say that I work for an organisation that constantly vets all those that it works for, and that a simple investigation on well-known internet search programmes are a start in the process of due diligence, which, in itself, is a lengthy, but simple procedure. I won’t say any of these things, though, because, rather like Giles Clarke, I am above the fray. I don’t want the legacy of this post to be about a lying Texan.

The question is: Has the ECB moved on from the 19th century? Well, it still has the shameless appetite for foreign treasure. It still holds archaic bureaucratic practices that strangle the game. But, most pressingly, it is still run by Old Boys.

The problem with Old Boys is that when they look on another male, about a similar age, and with heaps of cash, they welcome the decent old chap into their open bosom.

“Come on in, old bean, put your feet up, relax, lighten the load and leave your cash by the door as you come in, my dear thing.”

Thoughts like “I wonder where that money comes from” would never enter an Old Boy’s cheery, port-soaked brain. Money, of course, is vulgar; necessary but vulgar. That a professional businessman like Clarke didn’t even consider the reputational risk of Stanford is remarkable, but, really, the information is there for all to see.

I’ve been having a little root around Stanford’s site. The news section has not been updated since the 3rd February. Presumably, the Communications team are hiding in their girlfriends' house. Apparently, not only does Sir Poverty inflict his smile upon his staff, but also some “flair”:

“To distinguish the men and women of the Stanford Financial Group of companies, every employee wears an eagle shield representing financial strength, integrity and commitment to our clients.”

This man is to be avoided.

The “eagle shield” is a crappy, tacky, nasty little badge-thing that distinguishes between employees that work for a ghastly boss, and employees that work for a ghastly boss with a horrendous perma-tan. In any case, it’s a shame that the Group’s commitment to its clients extends to giving their money back.

The drama of South African domestic cricket

The modern world, as we will all no doubt readily acknowledge, is generally a rather rubbish place. Not only is it showing obvious signs of “going down the pan” (as it has for some millennia now) but, in the words of the great Ed Reardon, it is also run by 12 year olds.

No where is this more apparent that the domestic scene in South Africa. According to the singularity of all knowledge, cricinfo, there are two matches going on in Safferdom. They are:

Dolphins v Cobras
Warriors v Eagles

These two matches, I feel, have been unfairly neglected by the mainstream press. Surely, we are all interested to discover who would win in a fight between poisonous snakes and an angry pod of Delphinidae.

I suppose, as with all matches, the outcome much depends on the conditions. If played on the dry, arid pitches familiar to cobras, the dolphins, for all their superiority in size, would probably be picked off by the snakes after an attritional spell.

Conversely, if the dolphins play at home, then the cobras had better hope for a quick, decisive bite, or they’ll be all at sea.

Now, if they play at some neutral venue, like Bognor Regis beach, for instance, they’ll be on a level playing field. Leaving the cobras in a strong defensive position, but also allowing the dolphins some opportunity to attack with the tide.

Nevertheless, I would still put my money on the snake, that Flipper was fucking useless.

The second match is between eagles and warriors. What they mean by “warriors” is unclear – but I’m guessing they’re either a group of Ultimate Warriors, or some sort of deranged gaggle of Klingons.

The eagles have the advantage of good flight, but once the warriors get ahold of them, it’ll probably be a quick dash to the finish. The birds have to hope that they can baffle the men with a few clever sledges to confuse their enemy’s simple mind, and peck them into submission.

All these exciting events are going on, and the liberal establishment refuse to report on it.

In any case, kudos to the Dolphins for opening the bowling with Sanath Jayasuriya.

Kiwi mothers advice sons to keep away from Zimbabwe

Apparently, the New Zealand Prime Minister John Key has recently stated that he might prevent his nation’s big hitters from entering the Dark Continent.

The reason is that they might catch a disease.

Although a sound reason, and one I would subscribe to myself, generally speaking, I’ve never heard it used in a cricketing context before.

"There is the risk of cholera and quite frankly we don't support that regime" of President Robert Mugabe.”

You would think that senior politician of an industrialised nation would have better things to do with his time, rather than probing into the medical condition a group of gallivanting young men might find themselves in after enjoying a bit of sport. But, compared to the shenanigans of these lively lads, the financial crisis is but a bagatelle.

Paul Collingwood, the little brown that could

Paul Collingwood. Can you believe this man? Can you believe that this ginger Northerner, so handicapped at birth, can go so far in the real world?

Of course, as an exponent of treading water myself, I admire his grim refusal to do anything beyond the bare minimum. He doesn’t so much as force his way into the side, but refuse to be flushed away. When the ECB pulls the chain, some items are dispatched merrily into the water network, on their long journey through the Thames, and then Bognor Regis beach, Ian Bell and Monty Panesar for instance, but Collingwood just seems too stouty and the wrong shape for the pipes to boot.

Where most people would be a bit concerned about this situation, we’ve got some Australians coming over soon and they sure can pack a lot down there, and might consider breaking apart the offending remainder with some sort of stick, or your big sister’s toothbrush, the ECB seemed stunned by the awesome sight of persistence that floats before them.

The ECB likes Collingwood. He’s ginger, and has a red face. What’s not to like?

But the problem is that he bats like a one-legged pirate with a Geoff Boycott fetish. Never once, not even during his Australia tour, have I watched him bat and thought, “he looks in good form” or even a “that shot wasn’t remotely unattractive, I don’t want to gauge out my eyes with the sure cringing awfulness of this innings, OMG!!!1!”

I’d rather witness the true time line of six thousand years of history unfold than endure that any more.

So, once again, out of the jaws of certain dropdom, he flukes a century in the most benign conditions imaginable, and looks certain to keep other, good, players out of the side.

Flan-effin-tastic.

There’s no pleasing some people.

Dammit. Why can’t we have some more middle order sloggers? Or any sloggers, for that matter. What's wrong with the world, all the grit is in the England cricket team, leaving bugger all for the ice-covered streets.

Strangely disappointing success

If there’s one thing we English hate more than humiliating defeat, is storming success.

Oh, how a nation lapped up the sting of shameful loss of Jamaica. “51 runs!” Said we, “How shit is that?”

Very shit indeed, we all concurred.

Many pints were sunk in many pubs (no doubt a few steins were emptied in kneipen also) as a people took heartily to a favoured activity: bleating on about matters over which they have no influence.

Now all our beer-consuming ambitions have been dashed by unadulterated, brazen and frankly inconsiderate ascendancy in Antigua.

An opening English batsman “went on” to score a big hundred. Large partnerships were compelled. The top order put the opposition to the sword. And wickets, generally, were not thrown away cheaply.

The batsmen are doing all the things that we have demanded of them for the last four years. For the first time in eight campaigns of misery, they’re finally delivering a professional and ruthless performance.

And how do we feel?

Well, frankly, disappointed.

The pitch promised us fireworks. 23 wickets in a day. Lost teeth. Permanently disfigured South Africans. This is what we wanted to see. Violence, pain and suffering.

And what did we get?

Not a sausage.

I commented in a previous post that the last game was a return to the 1980s. Well, we’ve skipped over the 1990s and sank back inexorably into the mediocre Windies of the naughties. They’re not even worth beating again.

So, all we can hope for is that a few of the less popular members of the England team might receive a particular nasty bruise. That or concussion.

England will never recover - Collingwood

Former England captain that used to be good, Paul Collingwood, stated yesterday:

"We're rubbish. Might as well pack it all in. England's finished"

Jayawardene begins his bid for the English captaincy

Sensing a gap in a lucrative market, Jayawardene begins on his long campaign to qualify for and finally captain the England cricket team.

“It has always been my ambition, after captaining Colombo’s finest rugby team, the Piedersmanndorf XV, to lead England on the field.”

He later added,

“Any field, really.”

Perceiving that Strauss has no more than four years, “max” in England’s top job, which would allow the Sri Lankan Storm Trooper to qualify and sweep into the captaincy just in England’s hour of need.

Conveniently, in exactly four year’s time, England will be 18 months away from the Ashes, which is internationally recognised as the optimal period to prepare for anything.

England officials were silent on the matter, which allowed them more time to leak fervently to the press. One bureaucrat told the Daily Red,

“To be honest, we’d take anyone on at the moment. We need players that can go beyond 97 and get a big score. This lot is useless.”

Another commented,

“The problem with this mob is that they’re too English. We need more foreigners.”

Using the top strategies of the British Empire, the ECB management has decided to succeed by stripping the world of its finest elements. Giles Clarke was later quoted to have said,

“Ha ha. I still have my job.”

There was some stirrings, within the sober press community, that this may not necessarily a good thing.

Let’s do the time warp again

Do we all remember the 1980s? I know that, generally, remembering anything is inadvisable, and that last century’s eighth decade brought with it special kind of horrors such as Norman Tebbit and white trousers, but it’s worth re-engaging those battered grey cells just for a fleeting moment.

When attempting a reminiscence, be sure to skip over the files labelled “what you said last night whilst drunk” and definitely avoid the “early sexual experiences” folder, and drill down to that unique cringing pain given to you only by the England cricket team.

Ah. You are with me now. Deep within the tortured recesses of your undoubtedly abused brain, you find a potent catalogue of angry scars, each wound marking the next spineless England series, rather like an entombed prisoner counts of each day of his squalid march deathwards, you have commemorated each disastrous slump with a little piece of inward death.

In recent years, however, the scratches have dropped in frequency and intensity. Perhaps there may even by happy bellybutton marks filed somewhere in some forgotten happy part of the mind.

But oh, how quickly the stinging pain of reality re-unites the soul with the throbbing misery of memory. Strangely, as a device to unearth long repressed agony, the England cricket team proves more adept than Freudian hypnotherapy. And, for those mentals out there, a great deal cheaper.

The difference between England’s humiliating tours to the Caribbean in the 1980s and current embarrassments is the anticipation of obliteration, but now the feckless Englanders swaggered into the Windies with the hubristic and frankly hilarious expectation of easy victory, resulting in a predictable outcome.

It’s as if the disintegration of the team’s leadership, collapse in key player’s form and Twatford gang-groping never happened. England sauntered off to the one of the world’s leading tourist destinations with the intention to toss of the third world country before getting down to the real dirty with Australia later in the year.

By, OMG!!1 how pisspoor was that effort? I mean, really now. REALLY.

What were they thinking? What were they flipping thinking?

All that can save England now is a strategic ball placed under the ankle of a devastating fast bowler.

Welcome back to the good old days.

The market weighs man’s soul and decides his worth

"Which men?” you ask, “And what market?”

These are good questions, which makes a stark difference from the usual dribble you lot come up with, and so I will endeavour to answer them.

The IPL has held its latest round of auctions. For those English fans, and, least face it, no one really is, there are some interesting outcomes.

Of course, Kevin Pietersen and Andrew Flintoff all of a sudden became more valuable than the draw full of plastic bags and string, but the most interesting outcome of the bonanza, is the relative vale the companies of India gave to the various English players:

Andrew Flintoff (Chennai Super Kings, $1,550,000);
Kevin Pietersen (Bangalore Royal Challengers, $1,550,000);
Ravi Bopara (Kings XI Punjab, $450,000);
Owais Shah (Delhi Daredevils, $375,000);
Paul Collingwood (Delhi Daredevils, $275,000).

Three of these people cannot be dropped from the England team. It is simply impossible. Well, unless they defect to Botswana, or something. I hear there is a lot of diamonds there.

According to the markets, Bopara and Shah, neither of whom are likely to get into the England team any time soon, are significantly more valuable than Paul Collingwood, whom the ECB gets funny feelings in funny places about.

Everyone loves an underdog. Especially a scrappy, trampy one with an ugly face and a history of rejection.

But remove the story from Collingwood and what are you left with? A ginger nurdle to nowhere.

The markets, with their cold, harsh calculating minds, processing balance sheets and cash flow forecasts faster than an accountant’s calculator marinated in amphetamines, has realised that Collingwood, although ginger, isn’t that great really.

He’s a player with no spice, in a world where you need to remember to always add more chilli and thyme.

Bopara has spice. Albeit a rubbishy, neglected spice that you find at the back of the cupboard of your long-expired neighbour, Old Tom.

It’s strange that no England bowlers were selected. Given that they are all cuttingly devastating in all conditions.

England may earn a draw. If they slow down.

Perceiving the fearsome threat before them, England buckled down, and prepared to eek out a draw from an apparently unbeatable opposition.

Former England Captain Andrew Strauss looked a bit out of form; as did Future England Captain Alastair Cook, and England’s innings was only given a glimmer of respectability by the efforts of Former England Captain Kevin Pietersen (97) and Former England Captain Andrew Flintoff (43*).

Former England Captain Paul Collingwood, managed a smash a no doubt decisive 16 from a mere 61 balls, after the testing and probably nose-endangering bowling of Sulieman Benn threatened to cause serious damage to the west coast of England, such was his potency.

Everyone is still convinced that Paul “Speed Gun” Collingwood is still a valuable addition to the side. We all agree that we can do no better - so why bother?

That Former England captain Kevin Pietersen’s “rash” miss-shot is the main headline, reflects just how difficult and boring things were.

Former West Indies captain, Shivnarine Chanderpaul appears to be England’s crab-apple of their eye, as they attempt to copy his method of grinding down the opposition with a gradual and ugly accumulation of runs. Isn’t it odd how England’s style of play cuts across sports: cricket, rugby, bar crawling – we all approach them in the same way.

The only difference between Shiv and ourselves, however, is ability to be good, which is a failing that has long dogged the Englanders.

Here’s looking for a lucky escape for England on day two.

Steve Harmison finds his spiritual self

The list of English players that are interested in participating in the up-and-coming IPL fiasco has been published.

Steve Harmison, troubled tourist, homebody quick and molly-coddled underachiever, has found that, after years of moaning, complaining and missing the soft, bountiful rain of Durham, he has, all of a sudden, developed a pining for foreign shores.

He likes warm weather after all. Sure, it turns him redder than a judge’s backside, but, what are you gunna do? Spend all day in the swimming pool?

He likes international food now. He can tolerate all of that foreign muck these days. Although, still, no one can do spaggi bol out a can like his mam can.

Of course, it’s a shame that the recent independence and glimmer of character has emerged only recently, leaving a legacy of spineless overseas performances and frittered test matches, but we England fans have long accepted to take anything that we are given.

Except, we won’t be given anything in this case, because he’s going to play for Madras Metal Works Ltd. Super Smelters' XI. But, anyway, it’s nice to know that, after all these years of promise, investment and attention, Harmison has finally decided to come out of his shell; once the world realised the sort of incentive he needed. He cares enough to give something back.

It was such a simple thing. Harmy never wanted much. Just huge piles of diamante. It’s almost shaming to realise how basic a man’s desires were, and how pitifully we let him down.

Good on you Harmy. We’ll be rooting for you to stay in India for as long as it takes for you to find the real you, and leave the unpredictable, whinging disappointing you behind. Really, stay for as long as you need.

By the way, take a look at this tee-shirts. They're pretty cool looking.

Bollocks to who? BOLLOCKS TO YOU!

This sites has been a bit overly sophisticated as late, so I need to dumb down and connect to the bland morass that is my readership.

So, today, I shall denounce certain cricketers that deserve to have a huge hairy Hungarian screaming “BOLLOCKS TO YOU MATEY” in their face.

So. Lets start.

Kevin Pietersen.



Pratty Mire

Darrel Hair.

Shoaib Akhtar.

The ICC in their entirety.

Although we are above drawing crude penises on top of players heads at the moment. We make no promises about the future.

Is nothing sacred?

Bagpuss, not satisfied with taking over London, has now decided to invade English cricket.

Some goon who unashamedly calls himself Lord Marland of Odstock and ran Boris Johnson’s successful campaign for London mayoralty, (although, we all know it was actually some nasty piece of work Aussie that did the dirty, somehow Boris’ old chum was awarded the “Campaign Manager” title) wants to become the new chairman of the ECB.

Boris, flexing his political muscles further, plans to tighten his strangle-hold of the English establishment by sending Oddsocks forth to capture the ECB.

The London Mayor was heard to have said,

“Well, uh, buh buh, it’s kinda, buh, buh, gosh, right! Buh buh. The Johnson house will subjugate the masses through insidious control of its essential institutions, confounding all those who stand against us! Crickey.”

That Giles Clarke, a respected and hard-arsed businessman, has come under challenge from a minion of walking flan, is a sign of troubled times for English cricket.

Clarke hasn’t been a bad chairman. He hasn’t done anything that any other English chairman from the hallowed histories of the ECB wouldn’t have done – with the possible exception of ol’ Lord Bumsoak, whose solutions to administrative problems usually involved large vats of sherry, some well-oiled bats and twelve naked schoolboys.

But, politics is politics, and when the rats smell an opportunity, they begin to talk about strategic leadership and the need to gnaw on the rotting corpses of roadkill.

So, some nobody, whose only claim to fame is an association with the Tory party financial scandal that involved cheating electoral laws by fraud and winning over huge sums of money by misleading the authorities, thinks that he can do a better job than someone with actual abilities.

It’s a bit annoying that English cricket is such a preserve of the political right. I don’t make this objection so much for partisan reasons – my politics is somewhat broken anyhow – but it would be a fantastic addition to the game is so left-wing perspectives were brought into the game.

The Twatford affair would have been considerably more entertaining had (Sir?) Arthur Scargill been at the reins.

“Aye, Twatford lad, let me have a go at they lasses. Hallo love, we’ll keep the red flag flying here. Ooh flippin’ Norah.”

That’s right. We need more communists in English cricket.

Bangladesh grow into their trousers

And what trousers!

They’re playing a tri-thingy with Sri Lanka and Zimbabwe. The teams are full of nice people. Whereas the sides playing in Australia are full of bastards. So obviously we’d rather watch the Tiddly Tigers receive a gentle rodgering by their considerate sub-continental partners, than a watch rough-house quality performance with gits on some bloody pacific island.

Heck, if you were really in a voyeuristic mood, you could even watch them untrousered by Zimbabwe. But they have special genres for that line of business.

In any case, after their African unseating, Bangladesh sought vengeance for their humiliation and battered Sri Lanka. How, no one knows.

There are rumours that Sri Lanka has recently acquired a new girlfriend, causing them to stare absent-mindedly towards the WAGS enclosure as the ball speeds towards their collective heads. Occasionally, they have an embarrassing crack at poetry.

People are trying to avoid them.

Not only are they suffering from the usual symptoms of a rapidly shrinking bank balance and sleep deprivation, but this new female took anyway their ability to bowl straight without sighing wistfully at the thought of her beautiful pink elbows.

Then, as with all new relationships, Sri Lanka awakened to their daftness, and decided to pummel Bangladesh for “looking at her” - bowling them out for 154. Murali, fuelled by wild, jealous rage, bludgeoned the Tigglers into the dust for even thinking about it.

Nevertheless, the Tigers should be proud of their achievements: two efforts against hardened, experienced and skilful opponents. They have learnt their lesson: don’t get in the way of an inflamed Kumar and his gal.

But the Bangladeshis have earned their trousers today.

They have earned them good.

Being a moron isn’t my fault

So, KP doesn’t understand why he was sacked. Eschewing the dignity afforded to him by the ECB’s acceptance of his resignation, he is now doing what he loves best: bleating about nonsense in the press.

That he has been leaking to the press is not the issue. Although it is regrettable that this spat became public and personal rather quickly it is not decisive in his leaving.

The ECB is a public institution that principally operates in the media. Like any open, high-profile body, it is subject to leaks, rumours and press speculation. That anyone has been using this to their advantage to play their own game is hardly surprising, in fact, I would be shocked if it didn’t happen at all.

No. What did for KP was his ridiculous and frankly childish behaviour. To issue an ultimatum to your boss, five months into your contract is ludicrous, belying a deep unprofessionalism that is impossible to manage, or, at least, develop a meaningful working relationship with.

Or, as one ECB apparatchik put it (whilst anonymously briefing the press): “Anyone who offers to resign, clearly doesn’t want the job that much.”

Pietersen seems as though he didn’t want to give that impression, but that makes him all the more naïve. Behaving in and, more importantly, getting your own way in a professional context, is considerably more nuanced that a quick-fire fifty on a flat track.

And, KP didn’t seem to understand that he couldn’t act the same way off the field. He appears quite open about bringing his “do or die” mentality to the board room:

“I risked it all because it was my duty to say this was how we should move forward."

Risked all? What are you jabbering about? This isn’t Tarzan of the Bloody Jungle rescuing Jane from the improbably large jaws of some non-indigenous carnivore, it’s just office politics. Play the game, you muppet, it’s not the end of the world.

I wonder how much of this sort of non-sensical and embarrassing clap-track the England management has had to endure over these last months. Perhaps they got bored of his tedious cliques and platitudinal designs and thought one day, “sod it, I’ve had enough of this, let’s sack the bugger.”

So, here’s to ennui-induced regicide! Here!

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.