The science of swing – clouds don’t help

I urge you all to read this article. It is a fascinating exposé of the modern myth of swing bowling. In essence, the idea that humidity effects movement is false.

A NASA scientist, after a series of exhaustive experiments, failed to prove a connection between atmospheric conditions and the extent of swing.

Rabindra Mehta, the aerodynamic expert in question, argues that there are many causes and methods of swinging the ball. In fact, there are three types of swing.

1. Normal swing.
Caused by turbulence in the airflows around the seam, reducing the pressure on one side, altering the trajectory. The age, lacquer and condition of the leather is irrelevant: it is the seam that singularly disrupts the air flow.

2. Reverse swing
Caused by roughness on one side of the ball, because of the poor condition of the leather. This leads to increased turbulence on one side, and the decreased of air pressure moves the ball towards the rough side.

3. Contrast swing
With seam position straight, the relative roughness of one side disrupts the airflow, deflecting the ball’s path. The direction depends ball speed.

Prevailing winds affect the extent of air turbulence. As does the condition of the pitch, soft, grassy pitches protect the seam and the shine of the ball. Abrasive pitches scuff it up and hard wickets depress the seam. The weather conditions are largely irrelevant.

The article suggests that overcast conditions only give a psychological advantage, such is the depth of the myth’s acceptance.

I suspect that as the softness of wickets protects the balls, then in the days of uncovered pitches, clouds and accompanying rain would give rise to conducive conditions indirectly by softening the pitch.

The strength of myths, like any ideas, is usually confirmed through years of repetition. Indeed, just below the Times’ article, is a piece about how England’s bowlers failed to capitalise on the “humid conditions” at Edgbaston.

Civilisation moves in to crack down on Northerners

Once every so often we have to do something unseemly. That may be acknowledging the existence of ugly people, notifying the servants that the toilet in the Shavon room requires cleaning, or in the case of the cricketing authorities, Going To Yorkshire.

Fear not. This isn’t a twisted euphemism for self administered enemas, but rather the regular requirement of willingly entering the domain of the Yorkshireman.

Much like the Victorian frontiers of colonial influence, the tension between culture and sophistication on the one hand and God’s Forgotten County occasionally crackle forth from unwelcome truce.

Societal battles are most obvious when Geoffrey Boycott and Jonathan Agnew share the microphone. The mutual contempt rouses TMS from its default slumbers. Their encounters usually follow the follow pattern:

AG: I am now expressing an opinion.
GB: Eh. Lad, don’t be so daft! That’s madness is that.
AG: Well, it is an interesting thought.
GB: Oh, if I were still playing, I wouldn’t mind a bit of that. I tell you, if you did that, I would be queuing up for it, I would.
AG: Just thought, Geoffrey, something the captain might want to think about.
GB: Thought. From a part time seamer from Leicestershire? A ha ha ha. The captain listen to that? Ha ha ha. To a bloke who got, what is it, three test match wickets. Ah ha ha ha. I would be queuing up for it I would! Stick of rhubarb! Ah ha ha! The good old times! Ah ha ha!
AG: Ahem. It’s all over Geoffrey. It’s finished. The pads are away. Finished for good.
GB: It would be with you bowling, in no time at all! With my mum batting! Ah ha ha!
AG: No. I meant your career.
GB: Oh.
[Awkward silence for about half a second.]
GB: Oh no god! They need to pitch it oop more.

It’s a familiar, if sad little battle. With Boycott seriously pissing off Agnew, not through any maliciousness, because this is the only way that Boycott knows how to communicate with people. Agnew, hurt and embarrassed, aims fight back. Geoffry fails to understand, and continues to complain about everything.

Anyway, the point is, for the up-coming Headingley, security will be on level “police brutality mark nine”. Headingley has a bit of a reputation for boozing and for crowds stepping over the line that only stewards and policemen see.

But, to be quite honest, so does every ground. The Oval is often site to shocking acts of drunken tom-fooling buffoonery, as is Lords. So is everywhere.

What makes Headingley different? It’s Northern. And what does that mean? It’s full of criminals. It’s refreshing to see the ECB emerge from its era of Eton-dominated, reactionary, prejudiced, wankerism.

The difference between the sides

Is bugger all. England should have won, but the ball didn’t swing. This essentially rules James Anderson and Graham Onions out of the attack.

Stuart Broad can’t bowl.

Freddie’s legs are stuck together with blu-tak.

Graeme Swann is in the side for his sledging.

So, we have a one-dimensional attack that is entirely dependent on swing and occasional burst of Flintofian genius.

The Australian batsmen look comfortable and unflustered in favourable conditions. Of course, they lunge around like panicked orang-utans when the ball moves a bit.

English batsmen look a bit rubbish, they are all-weather rubbish though. It’s the non-batsmen where the Australian bowling runs out ideas – at least, once the tail steps forth, the Ozzlers replace their “line and length” ideas with “long” and “hop”.

So, the outcome of this season much depends on how overcast it is. If the weather’s bad, England wins; if the sun shines, Australia wins.

Now, in completely unrelated news, the Met Office revised their seasonal forecast for August from a scorcher in April, to a wash-out this July.

Is a terrible summer a price worth paying for the Ashes? The all-powerful English weathermen think so. And, fair play to them, I say.

What England need to do

This series is between two emotionally fragile teams. I mocked Alistair Cook’s feeble “aura” jibe at the Aussie’s expense. But I overestimated the thickness of their skins, and England launched into a major holistic therapy offensive, sensing hippy blood.

Andrew Strauss also laid into the Ozzlers’ dubious karma:

"I don't think this Australian side has got an aura about it to be honest with you and prior to this Test series starting we didn't feel they had an aura about them,"

Metaphysically cutting, I’m sure you’ll agree. Although, it’s also true and fair. In any case, Ricky Ponting responded rather tersely,

“But it's okay for him to say that now, I'm not sure he was saying that after Cardiff - we had it well and truly over most of their batsmen down there."

Which, of course, is also true. Although, they didn’t quite have Monty’s number, did they?

For some reason, Australia appears to have a weakness for this beatnik bull-plop. It’s probably something to do with the feelings of guilt they have developed after a decade of bullying and dominating the world. Much like the Germans. And looked what happened to them - they voted the Greens in.

The point is, both sides are weakened, and fatally aware of their own vulnerabilities, and any suggestion of doubt may decisive unbalance a team. Something like losing the toss seems to be a catalyst to the mood dropping.

All England need to do in Birmingham is hold it together. Go through the motions and play the game into a draw. Don’t overbowl Freddie. Recognise that your team is full of feckless midgies and move on. I mean, Stuart Broad and Graham Onions – since when were they international bowlers? In fact, when did Jimmy Anderson become our cutting edge? He’s pants.

Anyway, we must stick to tried and tested English strategy: Just hold it together until the rain comes, chaps…

Twitter Twat Twotted

Phil Hughes. Oh you plonker. Young. Naïve. But ultimately twit.

The Australian “batsman” caused panic this morning when he brazenly leaked his forthcoming dropping from the team. He did so via the modern’s opiate of the people, twitter:

Disappointed not to be on the field with the lads today, will be supporting the guys, it's a BIG test match 4 us. Thanks 4 all the support!

The ever illuminating BBC commentary responded thus:

Is this the first time that a team line-up has been revealed via Twitter?
NB George continued to hit the brandy hard for the three days before the wedding. On the morning of the ceremony, he was found face-down asleep by the fire in his private quarters. We've all been there.

They were of course alluding to George IV’s reacting to meeting his future wife.

Twittering, much like mobile phones and blogging, I fear is something I shall postpone my participation until it makes me staggeringly unsociable to do so. But, Hughes’ previous tweets do provide some interest.

11:37 PM Jul 19th from web
Been up all night fixing clarkeys bat, ironing hads [??] shirt, come on lads!!!!!

Proof that sycophancy gets you nowhere.

10:15 PM Jul 18th from web
Need to dig deep today.

Australia were fortunate that the young opener didn’t embark on his hole excavation until he was expunged from the team.

11:10 PM Jul 8th from mobile web
BTW, I think its fair to say its 'game on' in the 2009 Ashes!!!!!

Perhaps a future career in the media awaits? With that manner exclamation marks, surely Mark Nicholas’ role is under threat?

Rest Freddie?

The battle of the limping wounded will be chiefly decided by whose bags of deformed crocks will fall to pieces first.

With Brett Lee’s gammy side and Mitchell Johnson’s sideways sense of gravity, the Australian cause looked damned by the misfortune that traditionally blighted England campaigns.

But now, with the breaking down of Kevin Pietersen and the public disintegration of the Colossus of Preston, England are fighting fire with fire.

There is a note of desperation in the England camp, with their star batsman felled, they know that there chances are shot if Andrew Flintoff topples also. Here’s the latest unbelievable revelations from the BBC:

“The 31-year-old has been sleeping with a special 'Game Ready' compression wrap - designed from NASA spacesuit technology - around his troublesome knee, which helps to remove fluid and reduce inflammation.”

Everyone knows that he’s not well. But we also know that we need him, and it doesn’t matter if he exacerbates the problem because we won’t be using him in the future anyway. So Flintoff being permanently maimed for life is a little worry that the ECB’s carpet bagger doctor can forget.

Nevertheless, the forecast looks grim. By the current reading, it looks as though up to three days will be washed out. A result looks unlikely.

So, England’s worse case scenario is the Aussies batting for long periods, wearing down what little cartilage remains in Flintoff’s wasting joints, forcing him to miss the important forth game.

Why not rest old Freddie’s legs for another week?

England’s outfit is a one-trick pony now. We may as well acknowledge it. It’s the cricketing equivalent of giving the ball to Jonny Wilkinson.

Ian Bell: will the mouse roar?

I doubt it.

Ian Bell has been various described as the “most talented batsman in the country”, “Atherton-esque” and “complete shit”. And his test match record raised more questions than Aunties.

The general consensus in the mono-glot press is that Bell only does well on milkruns. Much has been made of his centuries at six – all coming when more responsible players grafted 100s above him.

This may be right, and I have generally shared the view that Ian Bell looks most at home when he is at home.

The problem is that there really isn’t anyone of the same authority in the English game who can replace Kevin Pietersen. Bell’s extended and underperforming run at three crowded out any other player, and blocked the emergence of potential county stars. Where would we be had Ravi Bopara been giving a long run a year ago?

But we are where we are, and there is, at this moment, quite honestly no alternative to the rat-faced bimbo.

At the moment, the line-up is looking decidedly Atherton-esque alright. Strauss, Cook, Bopara, Bell, Paul Collingwood, and Pratty Prior. It’s a wonder that they didn’t bring John Crawley and Simon Jones out of retirement (and/or death).

Although, Australia’s attack also finds itself competing against England’s former stars. Could Peter Siddle out-bowl Gavin Hamilton? Could Mitchell Johnson out-long-hop Chris Schofield?

Such questions might give England’s tart at number four new hope.

Mindless game

Australia have normally dominated the Ashes before Steve Harmison has chance to bring the umpire into action. The team had a number of PR vanguards that the ACB would push forward to gob off a few moronic remarks.

Australia teams have always been better at mind games. This isn’t because they are all terrible people – a fact whose veracity we needn’t doubt – it is because they smug, self-satisfied, superiority came from there actual, real, really good superiority.

Since Herr Warne and Glen McGrath, they struggled to find a suitably obnoxious replacement. Ricky Ponting has passed a few windy comments on the lines of, “yeah, look, the other team’s track record is a bit shaky, yeah?”

Mike Hussey a bit of a crack. He has a column in that leading international journal, The London Paper.

But, his problem is that, much as with the rest of the freesheet, it’s shit.

Now Alistair Cook, with all the batting flair of Henry Kissinger and with the cricketing brains of Liberace, has stepped into the fray.

An unlikely candidate to practice the dark arts, Cook’s principal problem with mind games seemingly is the “mind” part. Here’s a report from the Sunday Times:

“Asked for the difference between this Australian side and their predecessors, Cook was reluctant to appear critical. “It’s hard to explain mid-series but one thing that is slightly different is their aura.””

If you want to bring about mental disintegration in the Aussie team, criticise their aura. Also, try to publish pictures of them with “strange, glowing phenomena” floating above their heads, and steal Simon Katich feeling crystals.

Name that Bum #18 Answer

A bit of a poor showing by the bummers this week. Although, all was recovered with Samir Chopra's determined insistence that the bum before him was left handed. Here's his reasoning:

"Something about the body-language,the way the player is leaning so slightly to the left. Its not an exact science, but I'm willing to put a fiver down on it. At the very least, I'd say the player bowls or bats left."

The answer, I'm afraid to say was Mark Ramprakash.
And here he is, modestly masking his mighty rump.

Congratulations go to the The Old Batsman, whose prize is a picture with himself, with himself hiding in his own beard.
Tune in next time to see if you can...NAME THAT BUM.

The Guildford Festival of Cricket

It was the weekend. It was mid-July. The weather was grim. This could only mean one thing. The Guildford Festival of Cricket. Excitement throbbed throughout the shires

Sandwiches having been lovingly crafted by my own organic, free-range hand, the long train journey to this forgotten corner of Surrey began interestingly, with Stuart Broad’s public admittance to using muscle-enhancing chemicals:
Is the dope a doper as well as a dobbler?

Guildford. Ah Guildford. Forever a beautiful, market town. Look how the sunshine shimmers off the traffic.

Losing my bearings somewhat, the prescient local Council foresaw the need for a sign. A sign to joy! Let us go, stripy jumper, to meet our destiny together.

Once inside, we settle ourselves down comfortably with the radio, in order to listen to another, more interesting game.
Observe the generous leg room.

The ground was standard enough, for this part of the world, but was disturbed by the haunting howls of South-West Trains fast service to Waterloo.Despite the turgid innings before them, the crowd enthusiasm burbled through.Come lunch, it was time to indulge in my morning’s creations. To spice things up, I attempted to break the World Record for numbers of egg held in one hand.
An otherwise brave challenge, was abandoned due to lack of eggs.

As time dripped around to teatime, it seemed appropriate to investigate the wonders of the GUILDFORD FESTIVAL OF CRICKET.
Suitably persuaded by the charming, cricket-assailed women of the above stand, I acquired some of their excellent, if lukewarm, tea and a fine miniature carrot cake.
To the English weather!

Name That Bum # 18

Oh, little ones, it has been a long time before you have sharpened your wits on a pair of highly toned buns.

But it is time again. Tell me who this bum owns, and you get a prize.
Good luck and good bumming.

Play him off Keyboard Cat, II

I've been told that I've been Got At by lawyers again. This time, it was the ECB. Don't worry - Keyboard Cat is back again:

Those pesky lawyers can't keep me down forever.

Play him off, Keyboard Cat

It's not how, it's how many.

Looking for the negatives

Well, England won. Much cheering to be had around at work, and surprising magnanimous treatment of the office’s token Australian.

Most England fans were nervous this morning, despite the near-impossible task ahead of the Australians. So, in-keeping with our natural pessimism, doubt and self-loathing, it’s important to take out all the negatives from this stonking* victory.

Arguably, the critical moment in the match came with wickets of Ravi Bopara and Kevin Pietersen. Once England’s lower order biffed away– specifically in the confident form of Matt Prior – England reminded us that we were miles ahead. Pietersen looks a short, hobbling trot away from Knackers' Yard and Bopara would rather sprint there himself, if it evades facing Australia.

Stuart Broad also is a bit of a worry. His bowling would be good, if he batted at six, or even seven. But he doesn’t, so it isn’t.

This might be a strange time to say this, but playing Andrew Flintoff is much like losing two players. You lose a proper batsman at six, and you need a bowling all-rounder at eight to make up for Freddie’s lost runs. So much of the threat is indirectly sucked out of the team.

At the moment, Broad’s there for his runs, and against this generous Australian attack, such a safety net isn’t necessary.

But, that said, everyone one is doing an amazing job. Especially England’s secret weapons: the twelfth man and the third umpire.

*Yes. Stonking.

England: can they cock it all up?

We’ve been here before. We know what they’re like. England squander opportunities just as carelessly as bloggers split infinitives.

It’s best to wear the “oh Christ not again” hat in these situations.

But, whilst I was stirring Sunday morning’s scrambled eggs, the fall of Simon Katich and Ricky Ponting caused much jubilation, even if it was at the price of scraping breakfast from the ceiling.

There are always painful consequences to English success.

During the follow-on carry-on, I began to descend into dark, fearful thoughts. I even considered the replacement of Stuart Broad with Steve Harmison - and not feel a pang of self-loathing. Thankfully, Broad’s accuracy ceased living up to his name, and began to threaten the Australians.

In fact, England’s new look players have generally found life difficult at the next level. Ravi Bopara and Graeme Swann have struggled against non-hopeless opposition. As have young Ozzlers.

But the question we ask ourselves is this: how can England wank it up this time?

Andrew Flintoff is looking fragile, and could break down at any moment. The ball may not swing for either James Anderson or Graham Onions. Graeme Swann might bowl at a right-hander. Stuart Broad might return to his normal self.

If a combination of any of these factors occurs, England might just gift away the match. Indeed, a draw, from this position, may be an unrecoverable blow for the boys.

Here’s hoping they don’t blow it…

Testing who?

Bangladesh have won their second test match, against a side that couldn’t actually break into their first team’s test line-up.

The West Indies have revived their persistent player relation issue, with their entire on strike. Of course, it’s entirely reasonable for them to have done so. They haven’t got that much money.

And test match cricket is probably too boring for them anyway.

There have been some facetious murmurings regarding West Indies test status, and much vociferous chunterings about Bangladesh’s.

But, we are left wondering as to the standing of a second-rate test nation’s victory over a test team’s seconds squad. The scorers make the appropriate entries and log records, as their institution dictates, but how to other spectators view the match?

Well, if we are being kind, we can cite Bangladesh’s general improvement (albeit mainly in the shorter formats) and the need to broaden test cricket, whilst dutifully applying the patience that this principle requires. Indeed, as an England fan, I can cite many tours in which their squad has been decimated by gammy knees and unpleasant bowel conditions. Are England’s perennially crock collective worthy of test status, when, their “leading” bowler has been out for the past four years?

The problem however relates to depth. As we saw last week even a second string England team can trouble the leading test nation, perhaps more so than the actual test squad.

Although there are some paper records set by this match – a rare Tiger victory, a test match century, etc – it is doubtful that these statistical achievements will linger in the catalogue of test match honours.

The cricketing community will ignore this match, and forget the events and thrills without compunction. Indeed, it will be tacitly labelled as a first class match, or even a club game. And yet, the absurdly legalistic methods of international cricket afford this game a quality that no critical, rational human being would consider.

So, how does the ICC believe that we should treat this match – or, indeed, similarly sub-standard games?

I suspect they'd advice us to direct our attentions elsewhere. Towards the lucrative Indian market, perhaps?

The whinge offensive

Ricky Ponting has proven himself to be an innovative and resourceful captain when the chips are down. When your opponents are resisting you or impudently winning even, then there are a number of strategies that you can deploy. Ponting likes to whine like a girl when the going gets tough. In moments of stress, the Australian captain uncorks his trusty spirit of the game, and force feeds it to his gagging opponents.

Most observers of the game are surprised at Ricky “Munter” Ponting’s sudden attachment to the “spirit”. But it’s a little known fact that he keeps his spirit in his little rodent familiar: Spunky the magic squirrel that lives in his jock-strap.

When Ponting as busy abusive opponents and mouthing them off through the media, he was soothing and stroking his little chap with kind words for his friends in the other team.

All was revealed in the recent test match.

The most wonderful aspect of this game, forget your confident Australian centuries, played to test match perfection, forget your Kevin Pietersen shit mong strokes, forget the epic bravery of the last wicket stand, in fact, forget the cricket. For true glory, I refer you to Munting’s post-match whinge offensive:

“I don't think that was required. I am not sure what the physio was doing out there - I didn't see him call for any physio. I'm sure others will take it up with the England hierarchy as they should.

But they can play whatever way they want to play. We came to play by the rules and the spirit of the game, it’s up to them to do what they want to do.

I won’t be saying anything about it.”

Of course he won’t. He’s not for throwing his toys out of the pram.

Ponting planted his feet in the middle of the pitch, faced the Englanders, unzipped his trousers, released his little friend and let Spunky run wild all over the opposition.

He’s not alone. Michael Hussey has proved his worth on the tour, by brown nosing his captain,

“England’s antics in sending out the physio and 12th man got up our noses a bit and Ricky Ponting certainly let them know it. It’s a shame they had to resort to that.”

The Australians have a plan.

Test 1, Day 2: Progress so far

It has been a good start for the press. They have not been proven completely wrong so far. No complete cock-ups by the England team, as yet.

Highlights of the day’s play include these:

Radio 4’s PM asked: “how many anthems does a cricket match need?”

Henry Blofeld kept us highly informed as ever: “There are four overs left. That’s three after the next one.”

Vic Marks revealed all: “I’ve got a small one. But I didn’t put it there.”

In other news, England did ok. I reckon that most England innings conform to the golden decline of three, the so-called the ménage à twats. Three wickets fall to the bowlers’ skill, three to luck and three to batsmens’ idiocy – every match has this pattern. EVERY MATCH.

So, England have done well, I reckon. Even useless duffer Collingwood got some runs.

The concern is the bowling department. We only have one specialist fast bowler – whereas in 2005 we had three. The rest are all-rounders, and everyone knows that you can’t be a decent quick unless you are a mug with the bat.

But, we were brave to go with spin twins, even though one of them doesn’t look like he could twirl a mop at the moment. But, slow bowling looks like the only way we can attack the Australians at the moment.

So, 450 runs to the Ozzlers on a lifeless pitch…probably.

Who will drop the Ashes first?

If you happen to be on another planet, or maybe on the same planet, but only on a less interested part, you wouldn’t have escaped the speed-fuelled media orgy that is the Ashes.

If I see that bloody picture of Andrew Flintoff patronising a depressed looking Brett Lee again I will stick my nearest limb inside the nearest farm animal.

Of course, the British media is convinced that England will win. Not just win, but win confidently. All you need to do is look at the track record: Australia beat South Africa at home; England lost to the West Indies. It’s obvious that England are the superior side.

We all know how good the media are at predicting future events. They are experts.

Plus, we have Andrew Flintoff now. Freddie’s phlegm is like manna from reverse swinging heaven. We will destroy them! And we will destroy them somehow!

It was as if 2006-07 never happened.

But, for the life of me, I can see no difference from the build-up of this series to that fateful whitewash. In 2006, England scored a few good results, had some spinners coming through, and some talented, if under-achieving batsman. But no great series triumphs; no storming tours.

And so with this Ashes, you would rather suspect that Australia are better prepared.

Although, Australia look rather more Englandatic this time. Their bowling attack is a bit of a one-man band, and their batting a mixture of risky young promise and autumnal greats. Their spinner looks like a part-time darts player.

So, the question we must ask ourselves is “Who is worse?” England are normally first to put their hands up, but, I think it would be unwise to underestimate this Australian side’s ability to cock things up. It will all rest on one horrible, staggeringly act of incompetence. But, don’t rule out a steady stream of moronic errors – that too is definitely a strong possibility.

So, my predictions, after all this studious deliberation is 2-1 to Sri Lanka.

Paul Collingwood shaving

Days have passed. An embryonic beard is growing: An unwanted fuzz forming like a rampant fungus creeps around the neck and face. Although little facial fur has been accumulated, Paul Collingwood sends himself in on the fifth day down to save his face from another hairy situation.

Plodding forth to the bathroom, he steels himself with his trusty, plastic reusable razor bought from Woolworths. Facing a revelation of orange before him, a rare moment of confidence surges forward, and he twiddles his weapon with an enigmatic flourish.

After picking up the razor from the floor, the former and current England captain begins the task before him: the steady construction of a respectable appearance.

Beginning, as is his habit, from the bottom, he worked over the entire field of play up to the eyebrows. As he takes the vorpal blade in hand, the weight of responsibility and expectation becomes too much.

He struggles early on, losing all semblance of technique. Pressure guides his every fumble. A lesser man would have crumbled at the accidentally hacking away of the bridge of his nose, but the redoubtable Collingwood gritted onwards and upwards. Onwards and upwards.

Throughout the mist of pain and self-doubt, Collingwood found motivation in the peaceful sound of progress: the sink’s echoing plops as it harvested the falling fibers, foam and flesh. He considered pass glories. His daily facial flagellation at his work experience week at Northern Rock. The unexpected electric razor discovered in Australia. The destruction of the Inadvisable Moustache.

After the blood began to clear away, Collingwood began to rebuild his confidence with a series of short, stubby strokes. Slowly revealing the tea-hued pallor beneath the ginger grizzle, as he roughly nurdled away at the persistent bristles.

In the end, as Collingwood stared deeply into the mirrored image of cuts, gore and pus, he reflected on the past three-hours of graft. Oh course, he wasn’t pretty, even his mother admitted that to him, but he was effective and he got the job done. Perhaps he faces the word as less of a man, but a least he's a man. And, at the end of the day, it’s not how, it’s how many useless ginger sproutings you cut away.

Vaughan finally succumbs to the final straight one

I was wondering whether to make note of the retirement of Michael Vaughan, former captain of Yorkshire.

I decided not. Then looked at the news, and promptly reassessed.

Vaughan will be remembered for his innovative and creative explanations for missing the straight one. Although the Lancaster Turncoat found success early in his career – averaging over 70 in his first series against the Australians – once he was “found out”, the glory faded.

In past decades, his weakness probably wouldn’t have been spotted. But in an era of in-depth video analysis and bulging teams of backroom boffins, his inability to hit a straight ball, that doesn’t deviate upon pitching on a true bounce, was eventually unearthed.

Baffled by this minor fault, Vaughan would often be seen prodding the treacherous earth, shaking his head and muttering about fickle fingers of fate as the mighty king was castled once again.

My favourite moment in the 2005 was seeing the English captain completely bewildered by one of Brett Lee’s unnerving straight ones. There was a period where Vaughan could lay bat on ball against Jacob Oram’s terrifying lack of movement.

The final excuse came yesterday:

“Two weeks ago in the garden with my little lad Archie he bowled a ball that hit a weed and knocked my off stump out.”

It is surprising how such a talent has been blighted by an unusual amount of rogue weeds. Presumably, they’ve organised a union to conduct a campaign of anti-Vaughanist flying pickets.

I am informed that his the “most successful captain ever”. In an era of manifold matches and guaranteed results, it’s difficult to compare his success to former captains – especially good ones.

Moreover, since most of his “genius” plans to oust certain batsman were informed by a tax-payer draining mega-group of backroom analysts, it is hard to isolate Vaughan’s influence on the game. Especially since commentators attribute brilliance every time a captain moves a fielder.

In fact, the test of a captain is how he handles a weakened team – this quality, for instance, defines Stephen Fleming as one of the game’s great leaders. When Vaughan was blessed with a penetrative four-man pace attack, England won. Yet, in later years, when then bowling lost its edge, so did their captain.

We can ascribe responsibility to Vaughan for England’s “go-slow” strategy at the World Cup. But, if we do so, it is only far to credit him with England’s glorious streak of victories that culminated in the reclamation of the Ashes. The years proceeding 2005, saw a tremendous stretch of success and skill, all helmed by Vaughan. For that, I suppose we must say “good job”, and other such things.

In other news, Australian sporting prowess has further sunken into the pit of oblivion. Late-on Hewed lost at Wimbledon. Which is just as well, as he would have been beaten by a Britisher in the semis – that or spank a Scot.

Australian slump slumpens

As if Australian sporting nadir couldn’t deepen any further, the Australian women plunge new depths on the diagrammatic chart of oblivion.

England dispatched the Australian women, as if they were a collection of pre-stamped envelopes, ready to claim tax rebates.

England’s conquest was delivered mainly by Sarah Taylor going postal, with a run-a-ball 120.

Australia, in response, seemed to get lost somewhere in the system, or perhaps it was Christmas over there, or maybe there was a strike, or possibly they simply ran out of postage-based metaphors.

After a promising start, Australia struggled to keep the runs coming. Nicky Shaw doing the damage early on with 3-39, and Laura Marsh saw her ten overs only going for 33 and pinching three wickets.

Placed in the context of other catastrophes, many people are now openly wondering wondering whether Australia has gone the way of the 1950s Hungarian football team. That, or the Mir Space Station.

So, what do we think? 5-0?

What’s Australian for “rubbish”?

Australians, being a crude bunch, offer the English speaker a variety of terms to express disapproval.

Now, with the recent invasion of Ozzy finest into England, the Antipodean idiom is introducing these phrases to the British.

Let us look at some of these new words:

Nathan Hauritz (verb): to spin uselessly in a confused dither.

Michael Hussey (noun): a tired, redundant knacker whose productive life has passed.

Brad Haddin (verb): to drop.

Brett Lee (noun): Michael Hussey.

Ricky Ponting (noun): a sort of nasty dog-thing native to Australia, that looks ugly, smells worse and finds itself misdirecting other dogs.

Stuart Clark (noun): Brett Lee.

Giles Ashley (adverb): performing better than the entire Australian nation at spinning.

Cricketo con cojones

My copy of cricketwithballs.com's excellent new book has gone missing. As have my credit cards. Recently, I received some smug photos of Madrid sent to me anonymously.

Here's booky enjoying the sites outside the Plaza de toros de Vistalegre. He loves watching firey bulls going hard at it.

He then goes to see Carlos IV to exhibit himself at the Real Palacio de Madrid. Bastard.

It's an unknown fact that cricketwithballs.com loves views of massive cranes in actions. Bored of the culture, young booky catches some hot chocolate with churros.

Sus Australia practice Sussex

In days before news feeds, Australian sporting humiliations were haphazard affairs, dripping into your consciousness like sporadic summer rain. But now, with the plugged-in, high-wired, brain-fed media age, Antipodean abasement streams to every orifice like unwanted canine attention.

The Australians (not all of them, mind) are currently facing disgrace at the hands of a county that can´t even collect its residents´ bins on time.

I know Sussex. I used to live there. And oh, do I have some opinions about Sussex County Council´s pisspoor administration.

Yet, I can forgive years of the non-existent transport infrastructure, exorbitant rates and even the Chichester one-way system, if they humble Australia.

If you suddenly sharing a sense of déjà vu with the author, then, er, you would be right. To do that.

Sussex gave the Indians a fright in 2007. However, the Sussexians prudently didn´t press home their advantage. During the match, I noted the relative military dispartieis between the small English county, and the nation of over a billion. Perhaps, I thought, it would be better not to arouse feelings of revenge amongst the Indian populace.

“Let us not forget, India is a nuclear power. I have lived in Sussex. The respective local authorities scattered about the county are useless. They couldn’t even get the bins collected, never mind organise a collective nuclear counter-strike.”

It´s interesting to see how consistent I remain in my views regarding county refuse policy throughout the years. Anyway, I fully advocated that Sussex win the match, to provoke Indian, nationalistic sentiments, which would hopefully lead the extinguishing of that rubbish county in a massive nuclear strike.

However, in 2009, statistically speaking, there is a greater likelihood of weapons of mass destruction being present in Sussex than Australia. Thus, we can only suppose that the Ozzlers are kowtowing to the superior armouries of the Southern county, to prevent a Sussex-defeat resulting in violent backlash thus converting Australia into a dissolute, post- armageddon wasteland devoid of culture or sentient life.

I don´t know what they´re worried about though. No one would notice the difference anyway!

Badda boom ching!

First post on the upcoming ASDA Ashes

Would you believe, I have never written a post about the Ashes before? Or, as us mis-typers occasionally call them, the Arses.

Now that the rubbish is cleared out of the way, we can focus on the issues of genuine global importance.

After a rather vulgar tournament that shamelessly displayed skill, high drama and international enthusiasm, we can return to reality with an anachronistic context between some rubbish teams. A return to old days, where simple pleasures were to be found in honest forward defensives and half-hour ducks.

The battle between the fading giants of yore - admittedly, England have been fading since 1785 - will electrify a world that surely has not had enough of the continual gush of gushing, over-hyped mega-matches. “More meaningless minnow mega-matches” says the world.

But the Arses is not about ability, tradition or pride. No. It´s about the children - our children - who surely are our best hope for future non-Indian commercial opportunities. Cricket, after all, is about portfolio diversification.

One Indian spectator recently revealed to me in an exclusive interview:

“I don´t know why ya chattin´ to me, mate. I don´t speak a word of English, mate.”

A similar sentiment was spouted by the Australian Cricket Board. No one listens to the English Cricket Board, however.

Game on.

English women best in all the world

I am informed but a certain continental colleague of mine that the Spanish believe that England is the only country in the world that produces unattractive blondes. I was shocked by her sentiment, and would never publish such misogynistic clap-trap here.

But today perhaps the English women have finally proven their superiority over their Iberian counterparts, and indeed, the rest of the female gender throughout the world.

The international tournament of “who is best” was noticeable for its lack of Spanish entrants. We can only suppose that they withdrew from the field, once they realised the fitness of the opposition.

Yesterday’s final was the epitome of a ruthless dispatching of opposition. If the men’s final was a grisly, messy knife job, the women’s was a professional, even clinical shot in the back of the skull.

The rank amateurism of England’s opponents, however, created huge gulf in standards between us and everyone else. Their ill-preparedness and defective skills were especially noticeable in the European teams.

The finalists, New Zealand, have a shambles over their former captain, who didn’t believed that she was receiving adequate remuneration for the honour of representing her nation. Australia’s bowling lacks cutting edge. Most of the sub-continental sides are packed with duffers.

Whereas England boasts a multi-million pound (money) outfit, that provides central contracts for a class of professional cricketers. The sheer difference in quality overwhelmed a plucky, if under-resourced opposition.

Nevertheless, England’s women are the most dominant and attractive women in the world. The force of this argument is not weakened by the England captain’s resemblance to Andy Caddick.

Shahid Afridi wins World Cup

People wonder why Pakistan don’t normally succeed in these sorts of tournaments. It’s usually because they’re not good enough. However, this time, Shahid Afridi (cometh the hour, cometh the nutcase) revealed their secret to success: "The guys were really motivated." Not that it mattered. The guys may have well spent their time practicing their Risk, because they weren’t needed.

Whereas the Indians have their eye in on the strategy board game. They’ll wipe the floor with them.

Cliché artists always trot out the line that the “truly great” perform on the big occasions. Well, big occasions are much like other occasions, were the person that “performs” is much to due to luck as anything else. In any case, Afridi was awarded the Man of Match award in both semi-final and full final.

The tournament’s other great player, Tillakaratne Dilshan, got a duck in this game. Which we can only conclude to mean that he is rubbish. Or, at least, akin to Alec Stewart in the all time levels of greatness.

If Shahid Afridi was a stripped to the waist Roman gladiator, he’d probably stand at a Margaret Thatcher/Heman level of hardness.

Geoff Boycott was remarked that, as a batsman, Afridi had everything, except for brains.

Yet, Afridi is in the top five in terms of wicket taking and run getting. His economy rate is better than any other bowler in the tournament. His fielding can border on the spectacular.

But his hair could use some work.

Afridi could have won the tournament for Bangladesh, or even Australia, such was his form. And Pakistan would not have won without him.

Here’s to madness.

Pakistan win. Saffers lose. Simple as that.

The “main-stream” media have always been criticised for succumbing to group-think. All the journalists club together at the end of the day’s play, agree their stories over a pint, like a gang of uncreative miscreants before attending the headmaster’s disciplinary attentions, and collectively file identical copy to their respective papers.

Whereas that to which tarts horribly refer to as the “blogosphere”, and I call the “tributary, dried out, shitty stream”, has been praised for its independent thinking.

Nevertheless, bloggers have universally swallowed the lazy line of labelling South Africans as “chokers” and Pakistanis as “mercurial artists”. Of course, accepting this pre-packaged narrative saves all that brain activity, and allows you to tap merrily over your keyboard without needing to engage any grey cells.

Now, there is only one independent blog left now: ME. I’m you’re lot. I am now your only shitty stream of objective opinion.

So, here are my own GENUINELY independent thoughts on the match:

South Africa, being mentally prepared for the tournament’s final stages, were unfortunate victims of mis-timed peaking. The Saffers simply peaked too early. They wiped the floor with their opponents in the competition’s initial stages, whereas the sputtering Pakistanis were only finding their form early on. The semi-final saw South Africa on a downward trajectory, and Pakistan on the up.

Although, this is a boring way to look at it. We prefer stories and pre-determined analyses of matches.

Well, sorry to say, it’s all bollocks.

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.