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"
Thursday, February 12, 2009
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.
“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.
Monday, February 09, 2009
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.
Friday, February 06, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Steve Harmison finds his spiritual self
The list of English players that are interested in participating in the up-and-coming IPL fiasco has been published.
Steve Harmison, troubled tourist, homebody quick and molly-coddled underachiever, has found that, after years of moaning, complaining and missing the soft, bountiful rain of Durham, he has, all of a sudden, developed a pining for foreign shores.
He likes warm weather after all. Sure, it turns him redder than a judge’s backside, but, what are you gunna do? Spend all day in the swimming pool?
He likes international food now. He can tolerate all of that foreign muck these days. Although, still, no one can do spaggi bol out a can like his mam can.
Of course, it’s a shame that the recent independence and glimmer of character has emerged only recently, leaving a legacy of spineless overseas performances and frittered test matches, but we England fans have long accepted to take anything that we are given.
Except, we won’t be given anything in this case, because he’s going to play for Madras Metal Works Ltd. Super Smelters' XI. But, anyway, it’s nice to know that, after all these years of promise, investment and attention, Harmison has finally decided to come out of his shell; once the world realised the sort of incentive he needed. He cares enough to give something back.
It was such a simple thing. Harmy never wanted much. Just huge piles of diamante. It’s almost shaming to realise how basic a man’s desires were, and how pitifully we let him down.
Good on you Harmy. We’ll be rooting for you to stay in India for as long as it takes for you to find the real you, and leave the unpredictable, whinging disappointing you behind. Really, stay for as long as you need.
By the way, take a look at this tee-shirts. They're pretty cool looking.
Steve Harmison, troubled tourist, homebody quick and molly-coddled underachiever, has found that, after years of moaning, complaining and missing the soft, bountiful rain of Durham, he has, all of a sudden, developed a pining for foreign shores.
He likes warm weather after all. Sure, it turns him redder than a judge’s backside, but, what are you gunna do? Spend all day in the swimming pool?
He likes international food now. He can tolerate all of that foreign muck these days. Although, still, no one can do spaggi bol out a can like his mam can.
Of course, it’s a shame that the recent independence and glimmer of character has emerged only recently, leaving a legacy of spineless overseas performances and frittered test matches, but we England fans have long accepted to take anything that we are given.
Except, we won’t be given anything in this case, because he’s going to play for Madras Metal Works Ltd. Super Smelters' XI. But, anyway, it’s nice to know that, after all these years of promise, investment and attention, Harmison has finally decided to come out of his shell; once the world realised the sort of incentive he needed. He cares enough to give something back.
It was such a simple thing. Harmy never wanted much. Just huge piles of diamante. It’s almost shaming to realise how basic a man’s desires were, and how pitifully we let him down.
Good on you Harmy. We’ll be rooting for you to stay in India for as long as it takes for you to find the real you, and leave the unpredictable, whinging disappointing you behind. Really, stay for as long as you need.
By the way, take a look at this tee-shirts. They're pretty cool looking.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Bollocks to who? BOLLOCKS TO YOU!
This sites has been a bit overly sophisticated as late, so I need to dumb down and connect to the bland morass that is my readership.
So, today, I shall denounce certain cricketers that deserve to have a huge hairy Hungarian screaming “BOLLOCKS TO YOU MATEY” in their face.
So. Lets start.
Kevin Pietersen.
Pratty Mire
Darrel Hair.
Shoaib Akhtar.
The ICC in their entirety.
Although we are above drawing crude penises on top of players heads at the moment. We make no promises about the future.
So, today, I shall denounce certain cricketers that deserve to have a huge hairy Hungarian screaming “BOLLOCKS TO YOU MATEY” in their face.
So. Lets start.
Kevin Pietersen.
Pratty Mire
Darrel Hair.
Shoaib Akhtar.
The ICC in their entirety.
Although we are above drawing crude penises on top of players heads at the moment. We make no promises about the future.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Is nothing sacred?
Bagpuss, not satisfied with taking over London, has now decided to invade English cricket.
Some goon who unashamedly calls himself Lord Marland of Odstock and ran Boris Johnson’s successful campaign for London mayoralty, (although, we all know it was actually some nasty piece of work Aussie that did the dirty, somehow Boris’ old chum was awarded the “Campaign Manager” title) wants to become the new chairman of the ECB.
Boris, flexing his political muscles further, plans to tighten his strangle-hold of the English establishment by sending Oddsocks forth to capture the ECB.
The London Mayor was heard to have said,
“Well, uh, buh buh, it’s kinda, buh, buh, gosh, right! Buh buh. The Johnson house will subjugate the masses through insidious control of its essential institutions, confounding all those who stand against us! Crickey.”
That Giles Clarke, a respected and hard-arsed businessman, has come under challenge from a minion of walking flan, is a sign of troubled times for English cricket.
Clarke hasn’t been a bad chairman. He hasn’t done anything that any other English chairman from the hallowed histories of the ECB wouldn’t have done – with the possible exception of ol’ Lord Bumsoak, whose solutions to administrative problems usually involved large vats of sherry, some well-oiled bats and twelve naked schoolboys.
But, politics is politics, and when the rats smell an opportunity, they begin to talk about strategic leadership and the need to gnaw on the rotting corpses of roadkill.
So, some nobody, whose only claim to fame is an association with the Tory party financial scandal that involved cheating electoral laws by fraud and winning over huge sums of money by misleading the authorities, thinks that he can do a better job than someone with actual abilities.
It’s a bit annoying that English cricket is such a preserve of the political right. I don’t make this objection so much for partisan reasons – my politics is somewhat broken anyhow – but it would be a fantastic addition to the game is so left-wing perspectives were brought into the game.
The Twatford affair would have been considerably more entertaining had (Sir?) Arthur Scargill been at the reins.
“Aye, Twatford lad, let me have a go at they lasses. Hallo love, we’ll keep the red flag flying here. Ooh flippin’ Norah.”
That’s right. We need more communists in English cricket.
Some goon who unashamedly calls himself Lord Marland of Odstock and ran Boris Johnson’s successful campaign for London mayoralty, (although, we all know it was actually some nasty piece of work Aussie that did the dirty, somehow Boris’ old chum was awarded the “Campaign Manager” title) wants to become the new chairman of the ECB.
Boris, flexing his political muscles further, plans to tighten his strangle-hold of the English establishment by sending Oddsocks forth to capture the ECB.
The London Mayor was heard to have said,
“Well, uh, buh buh, it’s kinda, buh, buh, gosh, right! Buh buh. The Johnson house will subjugate the masses through insidious control of its essential institutions, confounding all those who stand against us! Crickey.”
That Giles Clarke, a respected and hard-arsed businessman, has come under challenge from a minion of walking flan, is a sign of troubled times for English cricket.
Clarke hasn’t been a bad chairman. He hasn’t done anything that any other English chairman from the hallowed histories of the ECB wouldn’t have done – with the possible exception of ol’ Lord Bumsoak, whose solutions to administrative problems usually involved large vats of sherry, some well-oiled bats and twelve naked schoolboys.
But, politics is politics, and when the rats smell an opportunity, they begin to talk about strategic leadership and the need to gnaw on the rotting corpses of roadkill.
So, some nobody, whose only claim to fame is an association with the Tory party financial scandal that involved cheating electoral laws by fraud and winning over huge sums of money by misleading the authorities, thinks that he can do a better job than someone with actual abilities.
It’s a bit annoying that English cricket is such a preserve of the political right. I don’t make this objection so much for partisan reasons – my politics is somewhat broken anyhow – but it would be a fantastic addition to the game is so left-wing perspectives were brought into the game.
The Twatford affair would have been considerably more entertaining had (Sir?) Arthur Scargill been at the reins.
“Aye, Twatford lad, let me have a go at they lasses. Hallo love, we’ll keep the red flag flying here. Ooh flippin’ Norah.”
That’s right. We need more communists in English cricket.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Bangladesh grow into their trousers
And what trousers!They’re playing a tri-thingy with Sri Lanka and Zimbabwe. The teams are full of nice people. Whereas the sides playing in Australia are full of bastards. So obviously we’d rather watch the Tiddly Tigers receive a gentle rodgering by their considerate sub-continental partners, than a watch rough-house quality performance with gits on some bloody pacific island.
Heck, if you were really in a voyeuristic mood, you could even watch them untrousered by Zimbabwe. But they have special genres for that line of business.
In any case, after their African unseating, Bangladesh sought vengeance for their humiliation and battered Sri Lanka. How, no one knows.
There are rumours that Sri Lanka has recently acquired a new girlfriend, causing them to stare absent-mindedly towards the WAGS enclosure as the ball speeds towards their collective heads. Occasionally, they have an embarrassing crack at poetry.
People are trying to avoid them.
Not only are they suffering from the usual symptoms of a rapidly shrinking bank balance and sleep deprivation, but this new female took anyway their ability to bowl straight without sighing wistfully at the thought of her beautiful pink elbows.
Then, as with all new relationships, Sri Lanka awakened to their daftness, and decided to pummel Bangladesh for “looking at her” - bowling them out for 154. Murali, fuelled by wild, jealous rage, bludgeoned the Tigglers into the dust for even thinking about it.
Nevertheless, the Tigers should be proud of their achievements: two efforts against hardened, experienced and skilful opponents. They have learnt their lesson: don’t get in the way of an inflamed Kumar and his gal.
But the Bangladeshis have earned their trousers today.
They have earned them good.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Being a moron isn’t my fault
So, KP doesn’t understand why he was sacked. Eschewing the dignity afforded to him by the ECB’s acceptance of his resignation, he is now doing what he loves best: bleating about nonsense in the press.
That he has been leaking to the press is not the issue. Although it is regrettable that this spat became public and personal rather quickly it is not decisive in his leaving.
The ECB is a public institution that principally operates in the media. Like any open, high-profile body, it is subject to leaks, rumours and press speculation. That anyone has been using this to their advantage to play their own game is hardly surprising, in fact, I would be shocked if it didn’t happen at all.
No. What did for KP was his ridiculous and frankly childish behaviour. To issue an ultimatum to your boss, five months into your contract is ludicrous, belying a deep unprofessionalism that is impossible to manage, or, at least, develop a meaningful working relationship with.
Or, as one ECB apparatchik put it (whilst anonymously briefing the press): “Anyone who offers to resign, clearly doesn’t want the job that much.”
Pietersen seems as though he didn’t want to give that impression, but that makes him all the more naïve. Behaving in and, more importantly, getting your own way in a professional context, is considerably more nuanced that a quick-fire fifty on a flat track.
And, KP didn’t seem to understand that he couldn’t act the same way off the field. He appears quite open about bringing his “do or die” mentality to the board room:
“I risked it all because it was my duty to say this was how we should move forward."
Risked all? What are you jabbering about? This isn’t Tarzan of the Bloody Jungle rescuing Jane from the improbably large jaws of some non-indigenous carnivore, it’s just office politics. Play the game, you muppet, it’s not the end of the world.
I wonder how much of this sort of non-sensical and embarrassing clap-track the England management has had to endure over these last months. Perhaps they got bored of his tedious cliques and platitudinal designs and thought one day, “sod it, I’ve had enough of this, let’s sack the bugger.”
So, here’s to ennui-induced regicide! Here!
That he has been leaking to the press is not the issue. Although it is regrettable that this spat became public and personal rather quickly it is not decisive in his leaving.
The ECB is a public institution that principally operates in the media. Like any open, high-profile body, it is subject to leaks, rumours and press speculation. That anyone has been using this to their advantage to play their own game is hardly surprising, in fact, I would be shocked if it didn’t happen at all.
No. What did for KP was his ridiculous and frankly childish behaviour. To issue an ultimatum to your boss, five months into your contract is ludicrous, belying a deep unprofessionalism that is impossible to manage, or, at least, develop a meaningful working relationship with.
Or, as one ECB apparatchik put it (whilst anonymously briefing the press): “Anyone who offers to resign, clearly doesn’t want the job that much.”
Pietersen seems as though he didn’t want to give that impression, but that makes him all the more naïve. Behaving in and, more importantly, getting your own way in a professional context, is considerably more nuanced that a quick-fire fifty on a flat track.
And, KP didn’t seem to understand that he couldn’t act the same way off the field. He appears quite open about bringing his “do or die” mentality to the board room:
“I risked it all because it was my duty to say this was how we should move forward."
Risked all? What are you jabbering about? This isn’t Tarzan of the Bloody Jungle rescuing Jane from the improbably large jaws of some non-indigenous carnivore, it’s just office politics. Play the game, you muppet, it’s not the end of the world.
I wonder how much of this sort of non-sensical and embarrassing clap-track the England management has had to endure over these last months. Perhaps they got bored of his tedious cliques and platitudinal designs and thought one day, “sod it, I’ve had enough of this, let’s sack the bugger.”
So, here’s to ennui-induced regicide! Here!
Thursday, January 08, 2009
Top Ten: Sexiest Crickters in History
I was inspired by Miss Field’s guest blogger’s throw-way line speculating whether Graeme Smith was the sexiest cricketer in history. This set my historical brain ticking: Who is the sexiest cricketer ever?
To be honest, those who know me best will readily admit that I struggle with sexiness as a concept. What I think as gormless, moronic-looking goon, females swoon over just at the very thought of his expressionless gawp.
So, I’ll be frank, I’m no authority. I’ll even admit that I’m wearing long johns as I type – which uncontentiously hold the title of Least Sexy Garment Known To Man. But then again, I have to walk to work when it’s minus twenty. In my experience, extreme cold never enlarges sexual aspects of life.
Anyway, to add to my catalogue of nude cricketers and general filth, I have compiled a Top Ten of what I consider to be the sexiest cricketers. The sole criteria will be those I would consider suitable subject for a cheeky fling. Or two. Some things transcend sexuality. Cricket, undoubtedly, is one of them.
To be honest, those who know me best will readily admit that I struggle with sexiness as a concept. What I think as gormless, moronic-looking goon, females swoon over just at the very thought of his expressionless gawp.
So, I’ll be frank, I’m no authority. I’ll even admit that I’m wearing long johns as I type – which uncontentiously hold the title of Least Sexy Garment Known To Man. But then again, I have to walk to work when it’s minus twenty. In my experience, extreme cold never enlarges sexual aspects of life.
Anyway, to add to my catalogue of nude cricketers and general filth, I have compiled a Top Ten of what I consider to be the sexiest cricketers. The sole criteria will be those I would consider suitable subject for a cheeky fling. Or two. Some things transcend sexuality. Cricket, undoubtedly, is one of them.
Number 10 Malcolm Marshall
The sexiest bowling action in history. As silky smooth as those pants your ex-girlfriend bought you that you’ve never worn but hang on to despite passing years of emptiness – you know, just in case.
Number 9 Kevin Curran
Look at the tenacity in that hair. His insolent eyes. Everything about him says: I’m too good for you. And you know what? He’s right.
Number 8 Robert Christiani
People tell me that Daniel Vettori has successfully mastered the “sexy geek” look. Although, not pretending to understand this, I have taken this reasoning to its logical conclusion and found the geekiest, and therefore sexiest, man in cricket. Well, eight sexiest.
Corr. Look at this’un. I would.
Number 7 Justin Langer
A man’s man. Ready to tough it out, no matter how many balls he has to fend off his face. But watch out for the stylish flash of his mighty weapon on this one.
Number 6 Paul Collingwood
(Front.) Ginger nuts are the sexiest biscuit of the baked goods community. The same is true of people. Sex on a number six.
Number 5 Nawab of Pataudi
The picture of elegance, refinement and sophistication. Plus he has a huge conk. And you know what that means, girls!
Number 4
A symbol of muscular strength and sturdiness. Can support multiple people in multiple positions at the same time.
Number 3 Graham Gooch
Making sure his equipment is well oiled before he goes into action, he’s never afraid to show off his fine helmet.
Number 2 Sarfraz Nawaz
All women can’t resist a ‘tache. Except for those that can. Pure, untamed phoar on a lip.
Number 1 C.B. Fry
This dashing, fine figure of man could certainly teach the one ones a thing or two about style. And sex.
Right. I'm off for a cold shower now.
Viva la revolution! Viva la Banana Republic!
Ding dong the witch is dead! Viva la presidente!
Well it’s been a rollercoaster 24 hours, hasn’t it?
I’ve been trying to explain to the various Europeans in my company the enormity of the events surrounding the Pietersen affair, and none of them quite get it.
So, I will explain it to you. I can’t see your eyes glazing over.
First off, this is probably the best thing to have happened in English cricket for a while. Not just because we sacked an absolute bastard, but because we did so in such a hilarious fashion.
Sure, the ECB didn’t want to be pushed around by some jumped up, over-hyped, over-sexed, David Beckhamesque Saffer – we all have egos, don’t we? And without self-respect what are we? Well, we’re English, but not much more, I tell ya. Not much more at all.
Secondly, the press’ response to this has been excellent. For instance, take this yesterday’s cricinfo headline:
“Breaking News: ECB yet to clarify situation.”
Breaking news indeed.
Anyway, this whole debacle couldn’t have come at a worse time for England, notwithstanding impending Ashes doom, but they have already gone through all their senior players, and the leadership cupboard is looking a bit bare at the moment.
So, the only plausible candidate got the job: Andrew Strauss. But for some, he looks a bit flat. Allen Lambchops said that,
"Unfortunately, I don't think Strauss will play in all three dimensions so that will create a problem. That is why they picked Pietersen - he can play all three dimensions."
That Strauss is struggling to enter the third dimension, is problematic for him and the rest of the England team in general. It is said that he need a fag to get him down the stairs in the morning.
It didn’t take long for KP’s magic man milk to go sour. Probably because everyone hated him. Andrew Flintoff supposedly lead a rebellion against him. Even Harmison decided to actually express an opinion.
I wonder what KP is doing right now. Feeling a moron, no doubt. Although, it won’t be all touchy feely in the Pietersen camp
Before this ridiculous mess, Pietersen was considered a world-class batsman, in all forms of the game, a feared presence at the wicket and a widely respected player. Now, he’s just a moron who bungled his way out of the job that he coveted for so long. For a man with limitless ambition, he is now constrained from developing any further.
Apparently, he doesn’t have the nowse to act as captain, to play the game and didn’t even have the respect of his own team-members. There is no where else for him to go. He’s just a batsman, and can go no further.
Undoubtedly he’ll make a big show of swaggering back onto the international stage (surely these IPL’s murmurings are not a realistic option for KP; besides, he’s already stated his intention to stay with England) but some of the aura of the man has drained away.
Most cutting is the public exposure of his weaknesses, and of his status as a perennial outsider - a foreigner who finds it hard to get along with others, arrogant yet, almost endearingly, desperately seeking acceptance. There is a tragedy about the man, a dichotomy. His success is brings a form of acceptance, yet this success is brought about by his uncompromising self-assuredness, the very quality that drives others away.
You could write a play about the anguish of the Pietersen soul: A Comedy of Twattishness.
Well it’s been a rollercoaster 24 hours, hasn’t it?
I’ve been trying to explain to the various Europeans in my company the enormity of the events surrounding the Pietersen affair, and none of them quite get it.
So, I will explain it to you. I can’t see your eyes glazing over.
First off, this is probably the best thing to have happened in English cricket for a while. Not just because we sacked an absolute bastard, but because we did so in such a hilarious fashion.
Sure, the ECB didn’t want to be pushed around by some jumped up, over-hyped, over-sexed, David Beckhamesque Saffer – we all have egos, don’t we? And without self-respect what are we? Well, we’re English, but not much more, I tell ya. Not much more at all.
Secondly, the press’ response to this has been excellent. For instance, take this yesterday’s cricinfo headline:
“Breaking News: ECB yet to clarify situation.”
Breaking news indeed.
Anyway, this whole debacle couldn’t have come at a worse time for England, notwithstanding impending Ashes doom, but they have already gone through all their senior players, and the leadership cupboard is looking a bit bare at the moment.
So, the only plausible candidate got the job: Andrew Strauss. But for some, he looks a bit flat. Allen Lambchops said that,
"Unfortunately, I don't think Strauss will play in all three dimensions so that will create a problem. That is why they picked Pietersen - he can play all three dimensions."
That Strauss is struggling to enter the third dimension, is problematic for him and the rest of the England team in general. It is said that he need a fag to get him down the stairs in the morning.
It didn’t take long for KP’s magic man milk to go sour. Probably because everyone hated him. Andrew Flintoff supposedly lead a rebellion against him. Even Harmison decided to actually express an opinion.
I wonder what KP is doing right now. Feeling a moron, no doubt. Although, it won’t be all touchy feely in the Pietersen camp
Before this ridiculous mess, Pietersen was considered a world-class batsman, in all forms of the game, a feared presence at the wicket and a widely respected player. Now, he’s just a moron who bungled his way out of the job that he coveted for so long. For a man with limitless ambition, he is now constrained from developing any further.
Apparently, he doesn’t have the nowse to act as captain, to play the game and didn’t even have the respect of his own team-members. There is no where else for him to go. He’s just a batsman, and can go no further.
Undoubtedly he’ll make a big show of swaggering back onto the international stage (surely these IPL’s murmurings are not a realistic option for KP; besides, he’s already stated his intention to stay with England) but some of the aura of the man has drained away.
Most cutting is the public exposure of his weaknesses, and of his status as a perennial outsider - a foreigner who finds it hard to get along with others, arrogant yet, almost endearingly, desperately seeking acceptance. There is a tragedy about the man, a dichotomy. His success is brings a form of acceptance, yet this success is brought about by his uncompromising self-assuredness, the very quality that drives others away.
You could write a play about the anguish of the Pietersen soul: A Comedy of Twattishness.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Australia fluke a win
Much like in England, once South Africa won the series, they magnanimously gave the opposition a test match. So, clearly there are some nice South Africans out there.
In any case, no one cares about the trouncing of minnows.
What we really want to know is all the juicy details of the England dressing room: what Moores really thinks of Captain Fantastic; who betrayed who; who’s bitching about who; and who’s shagging who.
Well, I suppose the new Doctor is a bit young and keen.
(See, despite my life spent cowering under the blankets in a cold, dark and unbelievably cold country, I can still make topical jokes. Even though I can’t feel my toes at nights, I am still wiv it, yeah.)
Now. Not only do human beings universally loath Kevin Bloody Pietersen, but it seems like the England team are in on the act. The Old Batsman made a very interesting point yesterday, by suggesting that the whole affair was an elaborately conducted plot to weasel the politically brilliant Steven Harmison into the captaincy.
If true, this darkly executed scheme, not only lacking in any moral reference or empathy, but it would instantly result in Steveo’s elevation to GOD and win a life time’s devotion from me.
However, outside the nihilistic pleadings of my cold-shrivelled soul, Andrew Strauss’ name is once again being mentioned. Within the power struggle of the England dressing room, and I’m not talking about who puts Monty in Andrew Flintoff’s coffin…
...hang on a minute...
NEWS JUST IN
Just read that KP has been sacked. According to the den of lies, the BBC, Pietersen, in his infinite wisdom, Pieterprat issued the ECB with an ultimatum: either I go or Moors does.
Seeing as the season of expanding debt, the ECB decided to go for a two-for-one deal, and sacked the both of them.
The rest of the world was heard to make the following remarks:
“AH HA HA HA HA HA”
What makes this resignation interesting, as well as hilarious, is Pietersen’s reason. He’s not going because he’s useless and has a terrible track record. Oh no. He’s going because he couldn’t get along with some apparently alright bloke.
Napoleon had the same problem. But don’t worry, he came back on fine form.
Anyway,
AH HAH AH AH AH AHAHAHAHAHA
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
Harmison intervenes with tact and diplomacy
Steven Harmison, long-time complainant of the media, commentators and those who open their mouth before engaging their Id, has shamed them all by his dignified entrance into England’s management fiasco.
In case you have some sort of life with priorities beyond the petty feuds of ECB politics, Kevin Pietersen and Peter Moores don’t get on. It might be something to do with Moores’ denial of KP’s opportunity to lord it over Michael Vaughan like some magnanimous twat. Or it might be something as simple as Captain Fantastic being a disagreeable twat, who can’t get on with anyone. Like a twat.
In any case, the misfiring of their team, despite the sagely advice of Otis the Aardvark, has brought a wave of introspection, self-doubt and, inevitably, wonderfully, beautifully, BLAME.
As all losers know, you can’t spell “You’ve been Ka-Blam-eod!” without blame.
So, the symbol of stability, reliability and mental strength within the England fold, “Steady Steve” Harmison entered the fray. Although, not being Scouse, it reduces writers’ prospects of suggesting he might do this by saying “cam daun, cam daun” and jerk his arms about like a maddy. Although he is sufficiently Northern for this thought to creep into a blogger’s mind, but it impotently sits there, never finding voice for fear of producing an embarrassing and slightly wrong passage.
So anyway, after being interviewed by the BBC World Service, broadcasting his views to every living person with a radio, power source and English-Geordie phrase book, Mahatma Steve has forged peace within the troubled England team.
Peter Moores was heard to say,
“I thought that KP was a right twat, then I heard Harmison’s grating, whiney voice on the radio this morning, and I decided that KP wasn’t so bad after all. There are worse people out there.”
Walter Bagehot, in a second press conference, asked the lanky slip-tester what he had said to calm the warring factions. Harmison replied,
“Oh, not much really. We sportsman have a way with words. I just said, “Hey, guys, just mellow, yeah. Players come and go; both of you are temporary, ephemeral wisps of a whimper. Only Harmy remains constant. Cam daun, cam daun.””
In case you have some sort of life with priorities beyond the petty feuds of ECB politics, Kevin Pietersen and Peter Moores don’t get on. It might be something to do with Moores’ denial of KP’s opportunity to lord it over Michael Vaughan like some magnanimous twat. Or it might be something as simple as Captain Fantastic being a disagreeable twat, who can’t get on with anyone. Like a twat.
In any case, the misfiring of their team, despite the sagely advice of Otis the Aardvark, has brought a wave of introspection, self-doubt and, inevitably, wonderfully, beautifully, BLAME.
As all losers know, you can’t spell “You’ve been Ka-Blam-eod!” without blame.
So, the symbol of stability, reliability and mental strength within the England fold, “Steady Steve” Harmison entered the fray. Although, not being Scouse, it reduces writers’ prospects of suggesting he might do this by saying “cam daun, cam daun” and jerk his arms about like a maddy. Although he is sufficiently Northern for this thought to creep into a blogger’s mind, but it impotently sits there, never finding voice for fear of producing an embarrassing and slightly wrong passage.
So anyway, after being interviewed by the BBC World Service, broadcasting his views to every living person with a radio, power source and English-Geordie phrase book, Mahatma Steve has forged peace within the troubled England team.
Peter Moores was heard to say,
“I thought that KP was a right twat, then I heard Harmison’s grating, whiney voice on the radio this morning, and I decided that KP wasn’t so bad after all. There are worse people out there.”
Walter Bagehot, in a second press conference, asked the lanky slip-tester what he had said to calm the warring factions. Harmison replied,
“Oh, not much really. We sportsman have a way with words. I just said, “Hey, guys, just mellow, yeah. Players come and go; both of you are temporary, ephemeral wisps of a whimper. Only Harmy remains constant. Cam daun, cam daun.””
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
A review of 2008
Right. As my friends illegally break into the random abandoned house marked for demolition in order to have a “cool” venue for New Yearly celebrations, I shall mark the coming of a new period of depressing pish by assessing last year’s disheartening memories.
This task would be aided if I could remember beyond last night, but I shall do my best. In fact, I think my earliest memory is breaking that nice glass in a bar last week.
January started with the usual numbing miseries. The two mega-sides of international cricket,Australia India
More complaing about Ausies in October. I found out how to enjoy the Twatford League.
November saw some bitterness towards the media, and hilarity and critical changes in the rules of the game.
December, brought lots of chocolates and Gluhwein, as well as more irritation at cricket journalists. The journalists responded by cutting off my access to cricket.
Right, so that's my year. I'm going to head off now. Hopefully, the Germans won't kill me tonight. Judging by the noise out there, I think they're using more gunpower than the Red Army needed to take Berlin.
This task would be aided if I could remember beyond last night, but I shall do my best. In fact, I think my earliest memory is breaking that nice glass in a bar last week.
January started with the usual numbing miseries. The two mega-sides of international cricket,
January also saw a brief feature where I related the performances of certain test teams to the dead animals that I found on the street. As well as the start of the viddy-blog.
In February, things become a little lewd,if philosophical.
March saw the coming of the Great Bum. And the dawning of Age of China.
April, AYALAC got close with Wisden, and even expressed some opinions on its totally sane list of Top Five Cricketers. Let us not forget that some cricket happened too, the incredibly exciting IPL started in April.
In May, the IPL reached new levels of joy known only to a select few of herion wombles. AYALAC also celebrated the great romances playing behind the blog scenes. I was surprisingly accurate with some. My mum also did some reporting for me in Antigua.
June saw the arrival of Alan Twatford, and AYALAC always backed this iniative and felt a bit annoyed that it didn't bleat about it endlessly thus missing out on some serious "I told you sos" come the actual tournament. The summer mouth also witnessed an experimental combination of cricket and horror. And, to my personal horror, I was actually spotted by a fan, on the street...
England continued in their usual style in July. But, I tried not to pay attention, as I was in India, at the time. Plus, much to the delight of all, Robocop started to play for England.
August saw more Wisden action. August had it all, trains, cricket reporting and firings.
The second coming came again in September, as Captain Fantastic showed the way with his magic man milk.
More complaing about Ausies in October. I found out how to enjoy the Twatford League.
November saw some bitterness towards the media, and hilarity and critical changes in the rules of the game.
December, brought lots of chocolates and Gluhwein, as well as more irritation at cricket journalists. The journalists responded by cutting off my access to cricket.
Right, so that's my year. I'm going to head off now. Hopefully, the Germans won't kill me tonight. Judging by the noise out there, I think they're using more gunpower than the Red Army needed to take Berlin.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Australia needs a new scapegoat
As any England fan will tell you, a loss can be attributed to one, or several if they’re feeling particularly brutal, players. Ablate these tumorous influences, and the team’s balance restores to perfection.
Until the next match.
Australia, once again, are on the wrong side of a series rolling-pin attack. (Although, interestingly, the Baggy Green’s decline started at the same time as the Credit Crunch. A bit too much of a coincidence, methinks.)
So, instead of addressing the problems like a rational agent of reason, the Australians now look upon their side’s line-up with the frenzied revisionism known only to deranged lumberjacks.
Matthew Haydon is top of the axe-wielders' list. Mainly because he’s a complete git (I use “complete” deliberately here – he’s a god-bothering, squeaky-clean moron. Every element of his personality offends.)
Somehow Simon Katich and Michael Clarke are still in the Australian team, despite the dawning of the Age of Aquarious. Obviously, they’re useless; but as they’re Australian, that doesn’t seem to effect their performance as much as human beings.
The problem, actually, is the bowling. Specifically Brett Lee. Not his gammy foot, but his general over-rated abilities. He’s pants.
I can hear the shrieks already, like the shrill OMGs shouted out in St. Rodger’s Catholic School for Girls, as the Headmistress finally blocks access to facebook.
As a strike bowler, the leader of the attack, the spear-point’s edge, the rolling-pins round bit, he’s a bit rubbish really. Sure, his record is superior to that of Andy Caddick, but I ask you, in all honesty, does he have the ears for the job?
The rest of the Australian attack, Mr Monkey-Wrench and Mr Spanner, are similarly useless. These tools don’t have the guile or the round-bit to make even the opposition’s number ten go “crickey, I’d rather not face him in a dark alley”
In stead, the tail-enders are thinking, “I hope I meet him in a dark alley, so I take his sweets and maybe force some hair-care secrets out of him.”
In any case, the Australians have found their scapegoat. Once identified, they didn’t mess about, they got down to business and attacked his feet with hammers. Now Lee is removed, the ACB can begin building a new era of Aussie bowling.
Again.
Until the next match.
Australia, once again, are on the wrong side of a series rolling-pin attack. (Although, interestingly, the Baggy Green’s decline started at the same time as the Credit Crunch. A bit too much of a coincidence, methinks.)
So, instead of addressing the problems like a rational agent of reason, the Australians now look upon their side’s line-up with the frenzied revisionism known only to deranged lumberjacks.
Matthew Haydon is top of the axe-wielders' list. Mainly because he’s a complete git (I use “complete” deliberately here – he’s a god-bothering, squeaky-clean moron. Every element of his personality offends.)
Somehow Simon Katich and Michael Clarke are still in the Australian team, despite the dawning of the Age of Aquarious. Obviously, they’re useless; but as they’re Australian, that doesn’t seem to effect their performance as much as human beings.
The problem, actually, is the bowling. Specifically Brett Lee. Not his gammy foot, but his general over-rated abilities. He’s pants.
I can hear the shrieks already, like the shrill OMGs shouted out in St. Rodger’s Catholic School for Girls, as the Headmistress finally blocks access to facebook.
As a strike bowler, the leader of the attack, the spear-point’s edge, the rolling-pins round bit, he’s a bit rubbish really. Sure, his record is superior to that of Andy Caddick, but I ask you, in all honesty, does he have the ears for the job?
The rest of the Australian attack, Mr Monkey-Wrench and Mr Spanner, are similarly useless. These tools don’t have the guile or the round-bit to make even the opposition’s number ten go “crickey, I’d rather not face him in a dark alley”
In stead, the tail-enders are thinking, “I hope I meet him in a dark alley, so I take his sweets and maybe force some hair-care secrets out of him.”
In any case, the Australians have found their scapegoat. Once identified, they didn’t mess about, they got down to business and attacked his feet with hammers. Now Lee is removed, the ACB can begin building a new era of Aussie bowling.
Again.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Articles about Monty lack variety
When Luton’s Champion, Monty Panesar, burst onto the international cricket scene, commentators praised the young genius as the saviour of English spinning.
“No more boring, defensive Ashly Giles to “hold up an end”, now we have a proper aggressive bowler.”
There was much rejoicing. Everyone prefers an offensive spinner. Just look at Shane Warne.
Then, nothing changed.
This, for the writers, was sin. Pieces began to suggest that Monty was boring. That he lacked personality. Some insinuated that he was just a dull git that the rest of the team hated.
The journalists looked at their construct of Monty – the people’s lovable hero, capable of winning any match armed with only a reasonably aged ball and a pearl of close fielders – and then they compared this to the reality.
The reality of Monty is just this sort of bloke, you know. In the media world, “normal” means “mind-numbingly, suicidally, OMG BORING!!!1!”
Monty was nothing like his media image. The journalists had sweated greatly in pubs during their conspiracy to “make cricket more interesting” and this effort was unravelled by the Real World.
And they hated him for it.
“Damn you Panesar”, they said
Starting with the removal of his charismatic name, the hacks began to denude Monty of his charm. This allows them to attack the hell out of him without looking like total bastards.
“A bloke called Monty should be more interesting. Dear reader, I demand that you completely change you mind about him. He has not lived up to the potential that his name suggests. You must loathe him now. Do it! Do it because I say!”
Now, the journalists have decided, en masse and without exception, that Monty “lacks variety” this means that he bowls at the same pace. All of a sudden, the world of cricket is gripped by the spinners pace. “Too fast” is the gospel truth of Monty’s bowling speed.
The only variable that affects a spinner’s ability to take a wicket is pace. Fizz, dip, bounce, strategy, or, god forbid, spin are now irrelevant factors in a spin bowlers armoury. If you bowl at 55 mph you go 27 overs without a wicket, if you bowl at 50 mph you will take nine wickets whilst conceding only seven runs.
This seems easy. But, leading on to our next point, they tell us that Monty “lacks guile”. This means that he’s a thicko. Every ball, apparently, is the same as the last. Duh.
Of course, this is the standard’s English spinner’s tactic: bore them out. It worked for Giles and the Great E’s, but, for some reason, when Monty deploys this time-worn approach, we decide that he’s a complete bastard.
So now, the press has decided, en masse and without exception that Monty is boring, predictable and stupid.
With a discipline as subtle and diverse as spin bowling, you think that opinion would vary regarding current exponents. Perhaps they’d be some alternative suggestions: Monty is bowling too slow, for instance?
But no. Everyone knows exactly what the problem is. The journalists know all. Shame they are shit at cricket, really.
(“…but hell, it ain't over till the slim man zings.” Ahem.)
“No more boring, defensive Ashly Giles to “hold up an end”, now we have a proper aggressive bowler.”
There was much rejoicing. Everyone prefers an offensive spinner. Just look at Shane Warne.
Then, nothing changed.
This, for the writers, was sin. Pieces began to suggest that Monty was boring. That he lacked personality. Some insinuated that he was just a dull git that the rest of the team hated.
The journalists looked at their construct of Monty – the people’s lovable hero, capable of winning any match armed with only a reasonably aged ball and a pearl of close fielders – and then they compared this to the reality.
The reality of Monty is just this sort of bloke, you know. In the media world, “normal” means “mind-numbingly, suicidally, OMG BORING!!!1!”
Monty was nothing like his media image. The journalists had sweated greatly in pubs during their conspiracy to “make cricket more interesting” and this effort was unravelled by the Real World.
And they hated him for it.
“Damn you Panesar”, they said
Starting with the removal of his charismatic name, the hacks began to denude Monty of his charm. This allows them to attack the hell out of him without looking like total bastards.
“A bloke called Monty should be more interesting. Dear reader, I demand that you completely change you mind about him. He has not lived up to the potential that his name suggests. You must loathe him now. Do it! Do it because I say!”
Now, the journalists have decided, en masse and without exception, that Monty “lacks variety” this means that he bowls at the same pace. All of a sudden, the world of cricket is gripped by the spinners pace. “Too fast” is the gospel truth of Monty’s bowling speed.
The only variable that affects a spinner’s ability to take a wicket is pace. Fizz, dip, bounce, strategy, or, god forbid, spin are now irrelevant factors in a spin bowlers armoury. If you bowl at 55 mph you go 27 overs without a wicket, if you bowl at 50 mph you will take nine wickets whilst conceding only seven runs.
This seems easy. But, leading on to our next point, they tell us that Monty “lacks guile”. This means that he’s a thicko. Every ball, apparently, is the same as the last. Duh.
Of course, this is the standard’s English spinner’s tactic: bore them out. It worked for Giles and the Great E’s, but, for some reason, when Monty deploys this time-worn approach, we decide that he’s a complete bastard.
So now, the press has decided, en masse and without exception that Monty is boring, predictable and stupid.
With a discipline as subtle and diverse as spin bowling, you think that opinion would vary regarding current exponents. Perhaps they’d be some alternative suggestions: Monty is bowling too slow, for instance?
But no. Everyone knows exactly what the problem is. The journalists know all. Shame they are shit at cricket, really.
(“…but hell, it ain't over till the slim man zings.” Ahem.)
Monday, December 15, 2008
Oh my deary god
Admit it. The only thing you were looking forward to was gloating over Aussies. That’s all you wanted, some small, pathetic slice of Schadenfreude.
You were going to laugh and laugh, and tell the Aussies what feeble worms they were, and that England was the mighty Crow which was going to devour them up come next Ashes.
But all we can do is crow now. Remember, England are a lame, useless, indecisive, unconvincing, dull, predictable, mediocre, ordinary, borderline incompetent bunch of disabled earth grubs who are incapable of rolling down a hill.
England is a small country. But somehow, there is so much to be angry about.
Of course, this is a total disaster, akin to Black Monday, the Battle of Balaklava and the birth of Russell Brand.
The problem England have, at the moment, is that their opponents are better than them. Looking at India’s line up, if you roll them over in the first innings, the law of averages dictate that they’re going to compensate with a legendary effort in the second.
And that they did. Fourth highest run-chase in Asian history, and with six wickets to spare. That old geriatric whose eyes have gone, Old Farther Sachin, fluked a century.
It is important to remind yourself how good this was. Not only were records broken in the fourth innings, but on the last day of a wearing pitch that had shown as much consistency as the German Ministry of Finance.
The bowling of Andrew Flintoff and Monty Panesar is class. And, with England’s new super-weapon, Greame Swanpy, the Indians looked doomed.
But this mega-line-up of nearly, but not quite, dead one-man myths breezed through England’s cream as if it were spread across a thick layer of easy jam upon the Scone of Effortlessness.
Although, that’s not to take anything away from England.
They’re still nothing to me. How can so much anger, by so many, owed to so few?
On happier times, I walked out of my Berlin apartment on Saturday. This is what I saw:
You were going to laugh and laugh, and tell the Aussies what feeble worms they were, and that England was the mighty Crow which was going to devour them up come next Ashes.
But all we can do is crow now. Remember, England are a lame, useless, indecisive, unconvincing, dull, predictable, mediocre, ordinary, borderline incompetent bunch of disabled earth grubs who are incapable of rolling down a hill.
England is a small country. But somehow, there is so much to be angry about.
Of course, this is a total disaster, akin to Black Monday, the Battle of Balaklava and the birth of Russell Brand.
The problem England have, at the moment, is that their opponents are better than them. Looking at India’s line up, if you roll them over in the first innings, the law of averages dictate that they’re going to compensate with a legendary effort in the second.
And that they did. Fourth highest run-chase in Asian history, and with six wickets to spare. That old geriatric whose eyes have gone, Old Farther Sachin, fluked a century.
It is important to remind yourself how good this was. Not only were records broken in the fourth innings, but on the last day of a wearing pitch that had shown as much consistency as the German Ministry of Finance.
The bowling of Andrew Flintoff and Monty Panesar is class. And, with England’s new super-weapon, Greame Swanpy, the Indians looked doomed.
But this mega-line-up of nearly, but not quite, dead one-man myths breezed through England’s cream as if it were spread across a thick layer of easy jam upon the Scone of Effortlessness.
Although, that’s not to take anything away from England.
They’re still nothing to me. How can so much anger, by so many, owed to so few?
On happier times, I walked out of my Berlin apartment on Saturday. This is what I saw:
Friday, December 12, 2008
Wronged Radio
Right. First things first. Who turned the cricket off?
Us Englanders in Germany used to follow live cricket over the radio. TMS, it seemed, was available to the entire world.
This was the case yesterday, when I woke up and, as is my want, listened to cricket in bed whilst breakfasting of muesli. A German AND English experience. The cultures are compatible.
Today, these simple pleasures in life, that all of us enjoy, were taken from me as cruelly an abruptly as a Bolivian grabs a child’s hamster to prepare in their dastardly Rodent Gravy.
Instead, I had to listen to BBC “We Don’t Do Adverts, We Only Constantly Spam The Airwaves With Trailers To Programmes You’ll All Probably Hate Anyway” rubbish.
Rubbish.
So, now I’m at work, and, consequently, in my usual angry mood (the Finance Department is being a right pain – but you know how finance people are, right?) following the OBO coverage, but without the usual colour and romance that TMS adds to my mornings.
Oh bastards in the BBC. If you were here, I’d give you a right going over with this pile of invoices and reimbursements claims, I would. Then, and only then, would you realise the wrong you have done.
Next item on the agenda: Graeme Swann, another player who hails from Burkina Faso or wherever, shoved in an England kit, given a few “patriotic” tattoos and thrown into the team. Why oh why, I have no idea. He is not one of my favourites. He, along with KP, Pratty Prior forms England’s Axis of Evil.
I mean, we know all foreigners are terrorists, so why are we letting them in the England side? To ease surveillance?
Anyway, just to cap off my bad mood, he’s only gone and bloody fluked two wickets in his first over of test cricket. Not only does this mean that he’s probably pushed Monty out of the spinner slot for about a year, but apparently, no other decent cricketer has ever done this before.
Why don’t the amazing blokes do amazing things, whereas the dreary, rubbishy geezers breeze through test cricket without a hitch. This explains a lot about the powers of Finance.
Us Englanders in Germany used to follow live cricket over the radio. TMS, it seemed, was available to the entire world.
This was the case yesterday, when I woke up and, as is my want, listened to cricket in bed whilst breakfasting of muesli. A German AND English experience. The cultures are compatible.
Today, these simple pleasures in life, that all of us enjoy, were taken from me as cruelly an abruptly as a Bolivian grabs a child’s hamster to prepare in their dastardly Rodent Gravy.
Instead, I had to listen to BBC “We Don’t Do Adverts, We Only Constantly Spam The Airwaves With Trailers To Programmes You’ll All Probably Hate Anyway” rubbish.
Rubbish.
So, now I’m at work, and, consequently, in my usual angry mood (the Finance Department is being a right pain – but you know how finance people are, right?) following the OBO coverage, but without the usual colour and romance that TMS adds to my mornings.
Oh bastards in the BBC. If you were here, I’d give you a right going over with this pile of invoices and reimbursements claims, I would. Then, and only then, would you realise the wrong you have done.
Next item on the agenda: Graeme Swann, another player who hails from Burkina Faso or wherever, shoved in an England kit, given a few “patriotic” tattoos and thrown into the team. Why oh why, I have no idea. He is not one of my favourites. He, along with KP, Pratty Prior forms England’s Axis of Evil.
I mean, we know all foreigners are terrorists, so why are we letting them in the England side? To ease surveillance?
Anyway, just to cap off my bad mood, he’s only gone and bloody fluked two wickets in his first over of test cricket. Not only does this mean that he’s probably pushed Monty out of the spinner slot for about a year, but apparently, no other decent cricketer has ever done this before.
Why don’t the amazing blokes do amazing things, whereas the dreary, rubbishy geezers breeze through test cricket without a hitch. This explains a lot about the powers of Finance.
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
Bring Warney home
There’s another hilarious unlikely musical out at the moment. It’s about Shane Warne. How unlikely is that? Hilarious! Ironic musicals. What will they think of next? Deary me.
In any case, there was a report on the BBC this morning about a new musical launching in Melbourne today. The actor, writer and Warneo look-a-like, said he spent three years gathering material.
He didn’t want to make any “cheap shots”. He needed strong, original material that stood on its own; not petty, easy passé jokes at Warne’s expense.
The first song I heard was an aghast chorus proclaiming their shock at the site of Warne jogging.
In any case, as we all know, the Blond Bamboozler is first and foremost a committed German. Germany, and German, culture is very dear to him, especially the food and beer.
So, in honour these profoundly felt roots, I, of AYALAC, call for the musical to be brought before the people of Berlin, so that they, too, might partake in his glory. The glory of the greater German people, still lives on, deep within the gut of one of their most loyal children.
In any case, there was a report on the BBC this morning about a new musical launching in Melbourne today. The actor, writer and Warneo look-a-like, said he spent three years gathering material.
He didn’t want to make any “cheap shots”. He needed strong, original material that stood on its own; not petty, easy passé jokes at Warne’s expense.
The first song I heard was an aghast chorus proclaiming their shock at the site of Warne jogging.
In any case, as we all know, the Blond Bamboozler is first and foremost a committed German. Germany, and German, culture is very dear to him, especially the food and beer.
So, in honour these profoundly felt roots, I, of AYALAC, call for the musical to be brought before the people of Berlin, so that they, too, might partake in his glory. The glory of the greater German people, still lives on, deep within the gut of one of their most loyal children.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
