First match of the season

Yesterday must have been a good day. I woke up this morning with a sharp pain in my ribs and some white, crusty matter in my hair. I guess I fought with those Pakistani fans, but at it must have ended amicably.

So! It was the first game of the season for me. Late, I know, but I have been jet-setting as late. Following in the wake of King Cricket’s photo journalism, and my own last year, I too, present the 2009 season's commencement.

The day started well. Sandwiches and Greek pistachios. I’m not entirely sure whether they were actually Greek, I bought them in Greece and they have a lot of Greek on them. So, I gave them the benefit of the doubt and brought them with me. A decision I would come to regret.


As I was walking along, I began to worry over the state of my boots. The previous day was spent picnicking in a field in Suffolk, and a group of curious cows found great interest in my leather footwear. Then I realised I wasn’t going to London premier ground, Twickenham Green, but slumming it in the Oval. Buggered boots be damned.

Here is a picture of the cows.


The match started well. The dancing girls proved surprisingly entertaining. The crowd never tired of booing the male dancers off the stage. The joke was still hilarious after hours of repetition. Here’s one dancing on his face.


Also, the celebrities were out. Sadly, Boris Becker could not afford a ticket; he ponced a free one as a cameraman.


Remarkably, my companions were complaining of ill-preparation: they had left their sunglasses at home. Not me. Look how cool mine are.


However, as Ireland’s innings sank into oblivion, I had a crisis of my own. Where to put the pistachio shells?

Jesus Christ! What am I going to do with this lot?

Alas, the weather began to have a bit of weather about it.


Then it rained and we went to a bar. Following this, some things happened. Then we went to a curry house. And I went home.


Ah, the ever reliable District Line. You never screw me over with Duckworth Lewis calculations.

Learning to tolerate T20

The difference between test matches and twenty20 cricket is much like the difference between meaningful sex with a partner you love, and casual, lusting encounters. Test cricket, although enjoyed with a person for whom you feel a deep affection, can be a little predictable. Whereas twenty20 gives you short, sharp, satisfying excitement, plus the added thrill that comes with the possibility of contracting a STD.

I used to hate twenty20. Well, not hate it. It’s the sort of generalised hatred you feel for those who sit next to you on the train. Untargeted and malicious perhaps, but not personal.

But, any format for which Australia are patently useless is a format of mine.

Plus, Ireland are better than Australia. England beat Ireland all the time, so, using the laws of transitivity, England are aches better than the convicts – the Australian ones, I mean.

In any other sport, “the favourites” would denote the team that were best at it, but the Indians are also singularly useless at twenty20. Although they tried to frighten England yesterday by wearing Dutch pyjamas, they failed dispatch an obviously rubbish side, in a surprisingly spectacular stand-off between ineffectuals.

Whereas, the South Africans have continued to deploy their controversial strategy of having a good team. Although he has a face that looks like Jack Russell’s kitbag, Graeme Smith has proved a quietly efficient dispatcher of the opposition. Annoyingly, it seems that quality does sign through is correctly used in this format.

Anyway, I’m off to watch the England game today. If anyone fancies a few bevies with a cynical, embittered blogger, look out for the most handsome man in the stadium. Then give him a slap. It would make me happier.

Why England losing ensures the continuation of time

Another day, another useless England performance. As vital to the universe as the celestial clockwork of the heavenly bodies, the English trouncing denotes the even progress of time.

Spending a lot of my own time with those blighted by the continental disease of Being Foreign, I am required to explain the nature of cricket to them. The thrashing is an event that I am frequently required to account for.

Our forefathers, being far-sighted, all-knowing geniuses, predicted the coming of our saviour: the game of cricket.

Thus, when the Julians and Gregorians were establishing their calendars, they required a divine consistency to propel time forward. Something so over-whelmingly predictable was needed, yet nothing so catastrophically unavoidable existed.

Thus, the Lord brought into existence the England cricket team. Wired into the slow ticking of each clock is the insipid confidence of each blue capped wearing numpty.

It would be with their defeat, that time would move forward. Each enfeebled collapse marked ever hour, the tides turned with every dropped catch and a gutless run rate marched time steadily towards judgement.

Although the Englanders provide opportunities to roll eyes amongst the cricketing fraternity, and extraordinary high levels of mirth for Muggle-like continentals, it is upon their failure that our own success depends.

Laugh all you like, but without our sacrifice of inevitable and constant humiliation, our whole world would come crashing to an end.

Sluggo still practicing hard early in the morning

Diego Maradona, probably the most famous and skilled and all footballing cheats in the world, was also famed for his rapid decline from the sporting vigor that powered his youth.

Too much drugs, too much booze and, crucially, too much sex, saw an end to his career. It a similar fate might await an equally cricketer: as Sluggo has a secret sun-up shame.

Now, being a facebook friend with your heroes is a dangerous occupation. Generally, doing anything on facebook will lead to layer of pain, regret and remorse. Look at Nicholas Sarkozy.

Facebook is an excellent news service, if you want your life to be inundated with facile pieces of information the lives of those who are trying to use you as a means to have sex with your sister.

So, imagine, to my horror, when I saw this "suggestion":


Now that he has given up the pressure of international sportsmanship, he is touting his new life as a dawntime deviant.

The spinner come sunrise stud may be embarking on a new age of celebrity and public exposure. Perhaps we shall see him on some island, trying to "get outta here". Here's hoping that they take Shane Warne instead.

Bloody Clog Trotters

There are list of nations that British people struggle to be racist towards. The French and Germans are easy. However, it’s difficult to foster an irrational disdain for a Dane or a Belgian – these are the harmless, innocuous, no-body nation to which we attach no distinct hatreds. Until recently, the Dutch were in that camp.

Of course, we’ve had our differences. The Netherlands was used as a base for a massive navel attack by a Spanish Armada in 1589They did sort of invade us in 1688, permanently disfiguring our constitution. Plus, the all speak infuriatingly good English – in most cases, better than native speakers.

But we can forgive them of this. The English probably consider the Dutch their closest friends in Europe. We both share a taste for watery beer, Big Brother and football hooliganism.

Now we must reassess this relationship.

Recently, there was a game of cricket between England and the Netherlands. England should have won, this is the natural order of things, and the Dutch, not being unreliable southern continental types, should have respected this.

In stead, no doubt due to malignant Australian infiltration, the Netherlands first presumed that they could win, and then arrogantly went on to do so.

The only rational response is irrational, ill-directed, knee-jerk attacks upon the Dutch nation. First of all, throw away your frying pan least any future pancake offend it. Then, you much expunge all that is orange from your house. Finally, resolve yourself never to cough again, in case that someone may believe you are talking Dutch, and the following feelings of association with those cursed wetlands lead to inevitable suicide.

Also remember this:

The Dutch are rubbish at everything. Whereas England are only rubbish at certain things, and only those things that we choose to be rubbish at.

Damned Dutchers.

jaja

As a total foreign in the world of criquet i find quitefunny the idea that england has lost it against the Dutch. Poor ductch people, evryone laugh at themin westearn europe, cuase they are so funny, and look, now they win, poor english, i have been recently in london, and poor english, (specially atheist) look so depressed quite qite funny, thanks to the Dutch for such a funny weekend here.

Cricketer kills pigeon

"We need to have another look at this now. We need to find out what happened."

Twenty20 match between Yorkshire and Lancashire at Headingley on 29th May 2009.

Daily Telegraph unearths ancient secrets of cricket

In a controversial article, Nick Hoult has stripped bare cricket by publishing “Five Secrets of Success" in today's Daily Telegraph. In bulleted form, the list of guaranteed success is as follows:

1) Good batting
2) Good bowling
3) Good fielding
4) Good captaincy
5) Good coaching

The Professional Cricketers’ Association has denounced exposé, as damaging to players’ future prospects:

“We not saying that we are the magic circle, but players are under order not to unduly reveal any secrets on pain of receiving the feared Ůnchāľŋ Ħğœ order.”

The Ůnchāľŋ Ħğœ is, an ancient disciplinary practice, still shrouded in mystery, but is thought to involve heaping piles of cold Bovril, gimp masks and ritual suicide. The PCA goes on,

“But in revealing these secrets, Hoult is likely to put many hard working cricketers out of business, and flood the market with unskilled amateurs, galvanised by this Gnostic information.”

I’ve only been buying the Telegraph – dubbed wittily by wits as “the TORYgraph” geddit? – because they have all the private lives of dirty MPs outlined in detail in what has become known as “The Great Expensegate Affair Scandal”.

But now, not only do I know about Austin Mitchell’s Secret 59p Ginger Nuts Shame, or that it costs £112.52 to maintain John Prescott’s long suffering toilet seat, but now I can guarantee cricketing success.

Not only has the Telegraph revolutionised the modern game with today’s addition, but it has taught me something new today. Underneath a completely justifiably huge piece about England's path to glory in the up-coming Twenty20, most editors would have been tempted to shoe-horn some random box filled with meaningless copy about generic principles. Not the Telegraph. They lead us into new territory, with hard hitting investigations that have unearthed secrets held since the birth of Dan Brown himself.

What wonders they are in the Telegraph!

Nooooooooooooooooooooes!!!

The news has rocked the world to its very core. The last a report to have such a deep impact, was the news of Margaret Beckett’s unsuccessful claim to put hanging plants on expenses.

I’m afraid to say that the titan of turn, mastication of rotation, girth of the turf, the battalion of Bermuda, he who breakfasts on batsman himself, Sluggo aka “Dwayne Leverock” has announced his retirement.

In a tearful statement to a stunned universe, the buxom Bermudan stated:

"There comes a time in your career when you need to take a step back. You've given all you can and your body sometimes tells you, with the aches and pains after games, that it is time to slow down. Even though my heart is still in it, the body says slow down.”

Indeed, there is no player out there that stretched the limits of physical fitness like this stout spinner. His body was under twice the strain than any normal, lesser man.

The truth is that after Bermuda lost their ODI status, the backwaters of ICC associate cricket lacked the excitement to feed the big man’s immense appetite.

"It has meant so much to me to have people recognize me for who I am as an athlete,"

His fine, distinctive figure on the field will be dearly missed. Goodbye pork pie bat.

KP violence sends boy to hospital

With an aggressive, fierce whirl of a large, blunt instrument and his bat, Kevin Pietersen, disgraced former England captain, brought young Reece Topley to his knees with a stinging blow to the temple in a net session yesterday.

Little Reece was known as “Tiny Topley” by his few friends (by which we mean those who are yet to betray him), because of his abnormally stunted growth – due to malnutrition and years of neglect.

Standing at a mere 6ft6in, this sickly youth was forced into brutalising schedule of unpaid labour for the benefit of oversexed England stars.

Yesterday, the dedicated lad, fresh from a spell of sweeping out Andrew Flintoff’s voluminous chimney, Rickets-blighted Reece was bowling his little heart out for England’s Kolpack player.

Dizzy with overwork and disease, Thrush-riddled Topley failed to detect KP’s evil stinger as it speed directly at its target: a mal-shaped head. Proffering only a mis-directed, stumpy hand to shield the fearful blow, his myopic eyes failed to co-ordinate any real defence.

The badly beaten boy fell to the ground like a sack of dead rodents, to the cheers of the surrounding Englanders.

As the stretchered boy was gently helped into the neighbouring bin, KP was compassionately remarked,

“That’s another one. Maybe we should start feeding them?”

Cricinfo goes the way of all things

Well, much like the march from peaceful, predictable, pleasant present to the feckless, futile, frightening future, cricinfo has embraced brash, conspicuous modernity and rebranded its website.

Just like everyone else.

Of course, there were compelling reasons for a change: the old website was possibly the most ugly thing outside Germany, and it took a while to find what you need.

Although, their main problem is the most of their stories are still written by troubled chimps who learned their English from Boris the Bullet Dodger. Sambit Bal announces the friendly new site with the cheery words "So what should I say? Welcome to the new Cricinfo?"

Charming. But at least it is coherent - which is a novelty on the site.

But, the scorecards offer broader functionality, and after the facebooks campaigns and knee-jerk fear that greats any change has died down, we'll soon get used to it. We don't have any choice, I suppose.

Although, I find that the more technology I'm given, the less that I actually use. Yet, give me a knackered geocities site, and I'm all over it like Yorkshire rain. It's like the inverse relationship between the size of a person, and the amount of space they take up in bed. The smaller they are, the more they demand.

JROD COMES

That's right. JRod, of www.cricketwithballs.com fame is finally seeping out of cyberspace and is now splashed onto hard paper, ready to come in your eyes in the comfort of your own bedroom.

It is all part of cricketwithballs.com's strategy to become General Secretary to the UN by 2015. Nothing will stand in his way. One day, we will all be little balls, bouncing to the rhythm to the great thruster himself.

RESISTANCE IS FUTILE. BUY IT NOW.

If you don't already own a copy, you are clearly deranged or, at best, Charles Colville.

West Indies rediscover their historic form

Well, I have returned to Blighty once again, and am delighting in the wondrous cleanliness and functionality of English toilets. More to the point, the IPL has finally done the decent thing and finished.

Meanwhile, the West Indies have proved us all wrong, once again, by returning to the glory years of the early 2000s (sometimes, people hilariously refer to this decade as the “naughties” – these people should generally be avoided, and, if at all possible, persecuted).

England have comprehensively humiliated the Caribbeaners in this series. No single Windie resisted the England attack; the usual reliable Big Wigs failed to fill their boots. Even El Crabbo himself seemed overwhelmed.

It’s not as if England are any good – Stuart Broad led the attack, for Courtney’s Sake. The Windies simply imploded.

After the winter’s heroics, the West Indies have returned to the golden era which boasted players such as Ian Bradshaw, Rawl Lewis and Vasbert Drakes. At last, they have returned to the era that young boys remember so well from their childhood.

Chris Gayle is threatening to “do a Harmitwat” and bleat endlessly at how much he suffers, and how terrible everything is. In any case, we can probably look forward to another tour in about two months time, with the possibility of acquainting ourselves with a new quartet of weirdly named seamers.

Although, with their track record, it is equally possible that they will win the Twenty20 World Cup.

Stanford: Failed drug figher, too?

Some weeks ago, cricketwithballs insinuated that Allen Stanford may, in fact, be a CIA undercover operative. As it turns out, this may not be far from the truth.

Since his empire of meaningless paper came to a crashing demise in, only three, including Laura Pendergest-Holt, chief investment officer of Stanford Financial Group, have indicted.

This is a bit odd.

Stranger have happened, of course. For instance, Paul Collingwood’s continued inclusion into the England team can be attributed to his ownership of a laminator, which he lends to backroom staff for their “Please leave the toilets as you would expect to find them” posters, pinned up in away grounds loos.

Indeed, strange things do happen. John Sweeny, of the BBC’s investigative flagship programme Panorama has accused Twatford of being in the pocket of the US Drug Enforcement Administration as a registered informant from 1990. (You can watch the entire report here.)

He's currently under the protection of the American legal authorities, who were presumably happy for him to steal $8 billion of other people's money in return with the valuable information that brought about the complete cessation all trade in drugs.

This seems a little tenuous to me, and very little evidence supports this claim.

Most interesting is the ECB’s continued claims that it conducted adequate due diligence. Although, it states that all is fine because:

“ECB is not a financial regulatory body. No regulatory body expressed any concerns about Stanford when we announced the contract in June 2008.”

Bless. Horrid money confuses them.

But there is another admission:

“ECB conducted due diligence on the original deal.”

Notice “the deal” and not the man. Hitherto, the ECB has laughable claimed that it had been professional and thorough in its background checks. But now says that it only looked into the project, not the man. (See full statement here.)

The man who was bankrupt; lost his banking licence in Montserrat; was wanted by the Floridian authorities for multi-million dollar tax non-payment; and openly on the SEC “He’s a bit dodgy” list.

For some reason, the Australians, Indians, South Africans and the money fetishist ICC didn’t want anything to do with this snake-oiled cheat. And yet the ECB has been untouched by their involvement with the Black Hole of Antigua.

They haven’t even had the foresight to make the illegal immigrant cleaner into a scapegoat. Everything about this shocks me.

Anyway, John Sweeny: kudos.

So, England are the best team ever

It seems proven then. England are the best team ever and Ravi Bopara is the new Lenny Kravitz.

Playing in the only test ground north of the Artic Circle, the Durham cricket fans are showing the world just how popular test cricket still is. Although the West Indies are doing their best to show us that it doesn’t really matter any more – there are more important things in life now.

Chris Gayle has the air of a man whose passionate girlfriend is jumping all over him, but because of the sounds of the neighbouring Morris dancing session he is finding it hard to get into the mood. He seems to be trying his best to respond, but the gentle clunks and whoops of the tubby men next door are proving compulsive listening, and certainly not eliciting the desired reaction.

Two Essex lads made runs for England yesterday. The most noticeable feature of this was their post-match interviews, were viewers could delight their Beckham-esque, streetwise accents.

“Yeah, mate, we chuffin’ ‘ammered ‘em propah.”

In celebration, Southend Pier was moved seven miles inland, in order to turn it into a giant kebab, in a bid to provide Alistair Cook with the mental encouragement to forge a double century.

It’ll probably happen, not because of the kebab, but because England only get double hundreds against the West Indies. But, of course, they’re still quality opposition.

England best team in the world

A lot changes when you’ve been away for a week.

Ravi Bopara, who’s a sort of alright nurdler, that would be perfectly suited to fiddling around the edges of England’s 1990s has now become England’s best batsman.

Joanna Lumley has made a bid for the Prime Minister’s position.

Graeme Swann, who’s about as English as the contents of the British Museum, is the new Andrew Flintoff. He can ably smack a quick fifty lower down in the order, and he’s literally impossible to play if you’re a left-hander.

A man whose name is so funny that would bring Noel Coward to his knees with laughter is now a bowling deity.

Although, struggling with this unexpected elevation to the status of “legends”, the ECB has recalled some of its key players from its “total Sheisse” days – namely, Jenny Bellend and Sadam Hairybottom.

The question is: WHAT ARE THEY THINKING?

Like trying to talk German to Spaniards, the England management have managed to make complete tits of themselves by communicating an apparently simple message.

Of course, as we find every time the Windies come over to the UK, they are totally ill-equipped to cope with English conditions. The tour has no bearing on everything except for providing a troubling set of indicators for the popularity of test cricket.

Although, it does prove that no English achievement is too great for us to belittle.

Ah, England. It’s good to be home.

Give me the fucking captaincy or I'll smash your fucking block off

Strauss' negotation tactic revealed.

Chris Tremlett bats Rest of the World to oblivion

Chris Tremlett senstationally pulls to dispatch the Rest of the World mega time to the Dustbin of History.

The Anguish of a Rejected Soul

Pity Lancastrians. They are sensitive types.

News that Michael Vaughan was not included in the England line-up hit the former England captain hard.

Chris Tremlett bowls out the rest of the world

In a grudge match between Chris Tremlett and the rest of the world, the Hampshire attack dog bowler dipatched the ROW's incredble line-up for a record score of seven.

What a guy.

Afghanistan: All-conquering mega-heroes

Afghanistan have recently dispatched another cricketing superpower. In a grudge match, fought, in true Pashtun fashion, to the death, huge crowds and bemused US soldiers saw the central Asian nation finish off the entire village of Ditchling.

Jamie Theakston captained the Ditchlingers, was quoted to have said,

"It is important in the process of nation-building and redevelopment that peasant peoples understand the value of pop personalities and meaningless gestures."

Theakston, famed for having once slept with Syphilis Spice, followed the match with the much more enjoyable game of having his carcass used in a stirring contest of Buzkashi, a sort of Afghan polo that Sylvester Stallone invented in 1985.

This received a much livelier response from the locals, as well as the English, familiar with Theakston’s work.

In any case, the West Sussex village team were comprehensively showed up by the Afghanis, who had showed the advantage of years of professional training and a massive stock-pile of AK-47s.

It perhaps proves the intrinsic sporting superiority over dessert people compared to the cultivated – just look at Australia.

There must be some advantage of living in Afghanistan. For instance, I imagine that Afghanistanis don’t have to endure the sexually frustrated croonings of Lilley Allen every time they go into a shop. That has to raise the moral.

Anyway, here’s to Afghan dominance! Death to imperial, neo-colonial aggression!

[I’m going to be off for a few days this week. Don’t worry though, this site is never quiet for more than a few hours. The ever reliable AYALAC, has some juicy generic content applicable to all scenarios lined up for you.]

Cut-off dates in cricket

I’ve recently finished Malcolm Gladwell’s interesting Outliers book, which rambles on about successful people. The reasons for certain individuals doing great things is due to factors outside their own control, such as their family, timing and opportunities. Excellence comes from chance events and environmental conditions.

Gladwell outlined one study which identified that in the highest level of Canadian ice-hockey an over-whelming number of players were born in January, February and March – well over fifty percent of some terms were born early in the year.

The reason? The cut-off date for youth levels was the 1st January, giving a year’s advantage to beef up and enhance their hand-eye co-ordination to those born earlier in the year. Once this advantage had been bedded in the early years, it reverberated into the professional leagues.

So! I wondered, what about the England cricket time? Any effect there? Here’s a chart of the birth months of the recently announced test team against the West Indies, and those still with lingering contracts.

It doesn’t show us much, really, does it? Other than anyone being born in August is completely knackered already. Although this crumb in itself backs Gladwell’s thesis, as the cut-off date in the English junior leagues is 1st September.

Perhaps the longevity of the games levels out early differences, or the confinement of cricket to a relatively short season negates age advantages?

Generally, though, it seems as though the English selection policy at schools and villages seems to be working ok. No one is unfairly favoured by the system. Grand.


Now, lets look at the Australian cricket team:


The cut-off for Cricket Australia is also on the 1st September, but there seems to be a noticeable effect here. Indeed, more than a fifth of the entire squad were born in the month of October, with a half being born in the last quarter of the year.

So, clearly, Australia discriminates, whereas England doesn’t. According to Gladwell we would therefore expect “double” the amount of elite level cricketers in England, compared to Australia. The Pommies should crush the pommies at every meeting.

Oh dear.

Maybe discrimination at the youth level is a good idea itself, no matter which criteria you deploy to distinguish between candidates, as this allows you to focus energies on enhancing the abilities of someone who is at least reasonably good. Whereas the “let’s all have a jolly good time” approach of English cricket may not be set up to pick out and invest into those displaying talent.

That these two data sets display very different patterns, despite sharing the same cut-off date, suggests that there is something else going on here. Or maybe nothing at all. In any case, the data speaks for itself, and I need add nothing more.

England finally reach the Bell End

It took a lot of hinting, cajoling and physical coercing, but the England selections finally gave in to our desires, to show that they know what to do with heads, and satisfying released exactly what we all want to see: a white paper of real substance.

Although, in its usual desperate search for branding with which it could use to “sell” to the “media”, England’s line-up has already been branded as the “new face”, the “future” on our happy march towards the “next era”.

A completely novel era where the bits and pieces player that doesn’t really excel at anything have been given central importance. Let’s look at England new vanguard:

Ravi Bopara – bats a bit, apparently bowls, but the ECB FORBIDS him from doing so.
Paul Collingwood – see above.
Tim Bresnan – although his medium pacers aren’t good enough for international level, he bats a bit, so that’s ok.
Stuart Broad – see above.
Graeme Swann – see above (ish).
Matt Prior – his keeping is rubbish, but…

In fact, the only players that actually appear to be good at anything are Andrew Strauss (whose seems to be alright at batting at the moment) and KP (whose brilliant mind games have surely won England at least eight matches in the past).

It’s as though the Englanders looked at New Zealand and collective thought “oh yeah, that’s where we’ve been going wrong – let’s pick the crap players.”

Ah well. Spare a thought for Michael Vaughan though – his chances were smote by the Yorkshire weather. Not for the first time has a promising career been suppressed by Northern precipitation.

Welcome to the defensive era, where we succumb the Ashes before it begins and seem to be meekly comply with the Australians demands for whatever debauched designs they have for us. It’ll be all over our faces before long. And I’m telling you, knowing Australians, it won’t be very long at all.

Clarke irritates all by being Australian

The last time I can remember Australian fielding a stand-in captain for any significant length of time was in 2007 against New Zealand. It was a humiliating experience, that provided much hilarity across the world.

Now, in Dubai, the land where you never change your socks, and the little streams of alcohol come a-trickling down the rocks, Australia looked like losing to a bunch of weekend cricketers.

Now that dream, that distant spark of hope in a gloomy, darkening world, has been stamped out by the Aussie jack-boot of despair.

Ah, Australia.

Australia, a land of rich and varied culture, whose sole culinary contribution to the world has been vegeshite. Once this unassailable delicacy was created, the entire nation sat back and though, “well, bollocks to it, that can’t be bettered.” (Let me pre-empt some ill-informed responses here by highlighting the Yorkshire Pudding. That is all.)

Ah, Australia.

You have given the world much pain, much suffering, and it’s just not getting any better.

Michael Clarke, a man who is rubbish, undeniably rubbish, but still scores effortless fifties and single-handedly wins matches with his useless yet devastatingly effective spinners. WHY?

Why can’t they just implode like a flannel? Why can’t they just die? Or, to express it in the words of that bit-part Asian bloke in Snatch:

“I shoot you Tony you go down. I shoot you good, Tony. Die! Tony, Die.! No! Aaaargh!”

Former England captain follows AYALAC’s leading path

We all know that cricket and art was first united by the hallowed halls of AYALAC HQ. It is an undisputable and uncontroversial fact.

Before I came along, artists, being naturally humble folk, shrank in the face of the game’s glory. Surely, they thought, only a true genius can capture the beauty of cricket.

A space large emerged only occupiable by a fish with a particularly awesome girth. It was time for AYALAC.

Now AYALAC has merged art and cricket into the international artform we enjoy today, Michael Vaughan has now tried his hand at it.

He has an interesting technique, based on Jackson Pollock’s method of paying local tramps to through balls at him, Vaughan refines the American artist’s sexual party games by hitting the balls at plan canvases.

The result is one of earth-shattering, spell-binding, thought-provoking, life-changing, premature baby-inducing beauty.

Vaughan has claimed that these pieces have been received well. Although people are sceptical when they here of a Northerner trying to be creative, says Vaughan,

"But then they see the finished works and they say, 'Shit!'”

And then they, he claims, they go on to add,

“'...they're actually good!' It really takes them aback, which is great. Almost everyone who's seen them has been hugely surprised."

Surprise is the first gate through the path of beauty. The second is having loads of freetime brought about by unexpected redundancy.

So, what do we think?

Don’t give up your day job.

Oh wait, YOU DON’T HAVE ONE.

Reaping that which they sowed

The England cricket team. Not for the first time, their cupboard looks bare. There are a number of serious problems which a disastrous series against weaker opposition resulted in the one change.

Ian Bell was axed, which came as a shock to all of us.

But, weirdly enough, some argue that there are still passengers in the England line-up. Funnily enough, the lost series against the Rubbish Windies didn’t provide the proof the selectors needed to identify which players are crap. The investigation to spot the stuffer continues.

As does their myriad problems. Total lack of vision. An ODI team lacking in shape, and consistently fields a chaotic line-up. An opening attack of James Anderson and Stuart Broad.

The fact that Steve Harmison, cricket’s equivalent of Peter Mandleson, is still not out of contention leaves blind old women, clueless as to the ways of cricket, enraged with the short-sightedness of it all.

For some reason, Chris Tremlett and Matthew Hoggard are not even considered.

Some people would call this madness. I would call it worse things. Two years of floating, lack of direction, leadership fiascos have taken a heavy toll on the England line-up. And the toll for being crap is quite high.

At least it used to be, now you just get early retirement and a six figure pension.

God. England eh? England!

God.

Personality mapping and the Championship

A recent study conducted by the University of Cambridge has found that personality types are geographically clustered. Jason Rentfrow, the lead researcher, contends that in this age of globalisation like-minded people gather together, to escape all the other bastards.

Apparently, according to my Sunday Times anyway,

“Londoners appear to be changing fastest, displaying sharply elevated levels of creativity, intellect, open-mindedness and extroversion.”

The Welsh are the most unconscientious and anxious, and those from the Tyneside and Northumberland are an introspective and generally bunch. Those of us who have some years of pain in the damned Northerly lands can confirm this as true.

Given this powerful new prism, we can now make sense of all county activities, and the cricketer’s inexplicable actions.

Given this analytical tool, we would expect Middlesex and Surrey, the two London clubs (not Essex; Essex isn’t even on this planet) would be the most successful. Whereas Northern sides, such as Durham, to be hopeless underachieving wall-flowers.

And I think the evidence pretty much proves this assertion.

Moreover, it is Rentfow’s contention that personality types are attracted to likes. The West Country, apparently, is the home of Kingdom’s most neurotic.

Justin Langer anyone?

IPL: The disappointment begins again

Just like that faint, building dread that worries the nervous system towards late November, you can now add April’s IPL woes alongside the annual yuletide dread to your calendar of ennui and fear.

I suppose that I have to do some reporting on it. But, to be honest, I’m rather hoping that the entire IPL thing will do a Stanford.

Well. Here we go. As if you cared, some people cocked up in today’s exciting twentytwinklies. These were, in no particular order:

- Andrew Flintoff
- Kevin Pietersen
- The entire Rajasthan batting line-up.

In fact, singling out the “English” “stars” in the IPL for unfair criticism may be one way of clawing back some interest out of this cynical, brainwashing exercise.

But there was no exciting razzmatazz as there was last year's opening games. It's just a lot of old blokes living our their middle age fantasy. It’s like watching a Star Wars film without at least twenty shots of deactivated light sabres rolls harmlessly away from reach.

Yeah. I hate the whole thing. And everything else.

When the chins stalk the land

There are some things that you forget about home when living abroad for a bit. The care-free charm of London buses drivers or total coverage of train carriages' interiors with stickers telling you what to do: I counted 26 within view on the 00:05 from Liverpool Street the other night.

However, strange things also happen when you leave the place unattended. For instance, people are surprised when they discover that politicians scheme and Graeme Swann becomes the countries premier spinner.

What the hell has happened to the place?

What has happened? I’ll tell you.

The chins have taken over.

Observe. Andy “The Zim Chin” Flowers:


Graeme “Likable Lineament”, known to cause fear and envy across the land when his captain orders Swann to fire up his weapon with the words “chin up!”, is also worth a look:


Anyway, the twin peaks recently chimed together to produce some interesting chin music.

“So, we’re aliens? What you going to do about it, you jawless flannel?”

Of course, not only are both their chins Danishesque in their jut, but both are also afflicted by foreignness. As respected Nazi scientists have long pointed out: the foreigner is a malformed, weird looking creature. They won’t mind that I said this, though, they can take it on the chin.

Having the second Zimbabwean coach of the team in under a decade has had the ECB slightly embarrassed by its Double Zim look.

Don’t get dishearted, the future for England looks bright. Keep your chin up.

England’s revolutionary move to appoint a Zimbabwean coach

Breaking into entirely new territory, the ECB have installed a former Zimbabwean player as their glorious leader. Known for his nonplussed demeanour and frog-like appearance, the former Zimbabwean captain promises to bring new steel to the floppy England line-up that has been struggling against even weakened opposition.

His name is Andy Flower. Prepare yourself for a new era of truly unbearable sub-editing.

Asked on his relationship with captain Andrew Strauss, Flower said,

“Yeah, it’s good.”

He later added.

“He gets back from his holiday soon.”

Obviously, the team’s captain leaving the country in protest of the Zimbabwean’s elevation to the highest coaching position in the universe isn’t the best of starts. But, he has more demanding problems ahead: Kevin Pietersen.

That a relationship between a Saffer and a bloke from Zim should be a factor in the future of the England cricket team show’s you just how far we have all come.

From over there, to over here.

The grass always looks greener on the other side; although the flowers always look crap.

We need imbalanced cricketers

Right.

Back from Germany now. Sorry about the long absences and rather infrequent posting. But we’re back in business baby, and this time, without bratwurst.

So. There have been a few things that happened to the cricketing world since I have stopped talking to you. Huge, momentous, earth-shattering things. Here is a list:

- South Africa won a bit. Then lost a bit and then won a bit more.
- Afghanistan has become an all-conquering mega-power that is only rivalled by the USA and North Korea for its nuclear strength.
- Sluggo has lost his ODI status.
- Milk, bread and something that isn’t sausage.
- England continued to make tits of themselves.

I remained silent on all these matters, and will plan on doing so for the foreseeable future (except the last one – there’s always room for more Anglophobic bleating).

I want to talk about opening partnerships. Opening partnerships are subject to an inordinate amount of agonising over. Teams don’t look for two decent opening batsmen, but a pair of perfectly complementing lesbian partners.

Let us assume that your team, the Sad Blog Readers' XI, has a decent opening bat, call him Arthur Spelthorne, who is, an “accumulator” who Boycotts his runs slowly but safely. However, another bloke has recently moved into your area: Benjy G. Maximus.

Now Benjy G’s reputation precedes him. He single-handedly smote The CtrlAltDel Second XI in last year’s Door Furniture Championship; scored twelve quadruple hundreds in one season and highest innings score equals Don Bradman’s total career runs.

Problem is Benjy G also Boycotts a gradual, steady hoarding of runs. His run rate is slower than a 200 pound 1500 metre runner whilst listening to Radiohead on his ipod.

Obviously that doesn’t sit well with Spelthorne. We already have a nudger, we don’t need to throw a nurdler into the mix.

So, what do we do? We stick Benjoes in at six of course!

Crushed by this insult, Benjy G loses his confidence, his average sinks to Kursk levels, and eventually leaves the club after a pitiful season, never to sport his whites again.

What bastards we are. What have we done to Benjy G. WHAT HAVE WE DONE?

We have fallen into the cricketer’s continual trap: neatness. There’s nothing a cricket fan likes more than a perfect statistic: an opening partnership of 555 here, three exact centuries in an innings there causes adrenalin, serotonin and semen to course through the delighted veins of any cricketing fan.

We love it when a line-up is neat and tidy. One quick, one swing bowler, one left armer, one offy that bats and an all-rounder at six. This is the ONLY line-up, irregardless of the pool of talent that confronts you, you just have to shoe-horn your guys into the Standard Line-up.

And maybe, you know, we should rethink that. We need to pick four leggies or something. You know, mix it up a bit. Keep them guessing.

We need opening partnerships that hate each other. Violent, loathing hatred. The Australians, as with many things, are leading the way on this one.

Guest Blog: The “South African” Indian Premier League!

While you try to wrap your head around that - Lalit Modi is crouched over a table in a dark room, smoking his 2nd pack for the day, his top shirt button undone, tie loosened, punching his calculator trying to figure out how much money he will make, or loose, in IPL round 2.

Only the course of time will tell if the move will prove to be an in genius idea on the part of Lalit Modi or whether it was just another way to make a quick buck because he couldn't wait around for 2 more weeks till India’s general elections passed. It was perhaps in his haste that he scheduled matches at 12.30 and 4.30pm South Africa time. If the idea in bringing the IPL to SA was to generate some interest there then Modi doesn't seem to have followed through. In these times of economic strife, one wonders how many people can afford to take a day off work to make it to a match at either of these times.

Of course the Indian fans will be happy which might have been Modis ultimate goal in any case. Can South Africa’s meager numbers even compare to the billion eye ball worth market he can please. At prime time no less. This would no doubt mean the Indians will have plenty of time to hit the PCs and join in some Fantasy cricket fun. I mean with no matches to go to how else they are going to enjoy the full IPL experience.

Well enough about the politics of it. Let’s talk about the cricket. If you are thinking about engaging in some IPL Fantasy cricket, you might want to think carefully about the kind of players you are picking. If you are thinking about budgeting for the traditional power houses - Jayasuriya, Sehwag, Yuvraj and the like you might want to think again. While these players were massive hits in India in 2008, their records in SA are paltry when compared to their careers. Most sub continental batsmen struggle in SA so you will need to be wise in who you go for. This doesn’t mean there aren’t any good Asian players to pick from.

You can’t go wrong with Kumar Sangakkara, who thrives on all conditions or Sachin Tendulkar, who is looking sublime in NZ at the moment. But if you really want to hit the big times, invest in Southern Hemisphere teams. The Australians, South Africans and Kiwis will probably be stars at this year’s IPL because they are used to the conditions and play most of their cricket on similar wickets. All 3 teams are coming off good 2020 runs in the lead up as well.

My top 5 batting picks for IPL are -

5. Graeme Smith- You can count of Smith. He is a man so cool under pressure you feel at ease just by looking at him. He racked up the runs for Shane Warne when it mattered last year and playing at home in front of his home crowds will lift the big man.

4. Brendan Mcullum - Mcullum gave the IPL a start that even Lalit Modi couldn't have engineered. His big hitting is an art form. Brendan has learnt the virtue of consistency and from the looks of things in NZ over the summer is ready for another rumble in the jungle.

3. Adam Gilchrist- If you want clean hitting then look no further. Gilchrist still gives me nightmares after what he did to Sri Lanka in the world cup final. Has plenty of experience in SA and will want to prove to Australia and the world what they are missing out on. Plus he walks. What more can you ask for.

2. Kevin Peitersen - Big egos need to be watered all the time. The IPL gives KP the prime time opportunity to expand his self love and in doing so provide us with some switch hitting genius. The IPL was made for KP and KP for it. He will be keen to prove his 1mil+ worth. Probably at the expense of some hapless bowler. Good thing Mick Lewis ain't around.

1. Jesse Ryder - We have just witnessed the birth of a Giant. And that's no poke at Jesses' hefty size. Well it is but Ryder seems to have the natural gift of time and has ample of it when facing the ball and its perfection when hitting it. Its Ryder’s first time out in the IPL and if he can stay sober he might light the whole show on fire.

Well now that the chances to watching the matches live in India do not exist anymore, it seems more likely that cricket fans would have to do with Cricket News & updates online and get going with some good interactive cricket stuff over the internet!

Kiki and Sisi hit Berlin

Every one knows that the cool bloggers are in Germany.

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.