Name that Bum #4

OK chaps and chappettes, you know the score.You have to identify the international cricketer in the shots below.

This week, a bum from history.

Same rules as last time, please give you answers in the comments.Winners will have a poem written in their honour.

Good luck, and good bumming.

Clue One

Clue Two

Clue Three

Can you...NAME THAT BUM?

BOR-RING!

Well, the inevitable happened. The lifeless pancake produced a predictably dull result. I blame the children.

After Virender Sehwagosaurus hit a surprisingly disappointing triple hundred, India collapsed to a mere six hundred and something. Then some Saffers scored some runs. But no one really cared at this point.

Not even Navjot Singh Sidhu.

This match was rather like a school Battle of the Bands. Only worse.

Now, take a batsman. There is probably a rough correlation between his success and his personal repulsiveness (statisticians, I’m looking for a little help here).

Like a lead singer, he probably has “charisma” and “a personality”, but take him away from the lime light and he just becomes your bog standard twat. Although, conversely, this actually increases his propensity for attracting the opposite sex.

But, for the purposes of this analogy I am willing to ignore women. They tend up to mess up most theories, I find.

Wicket keepers are your drummers: they are far too noisy and everyone wishes they’d just shut up. Look, if you really want to keep time, have a bloody triangle. But, they won’t listen – permanent damage to their ears (and brains).

Makhaya Ntini is the fat kid at the front of the audience. Occassionally, he would dance in time, but more often than not, he'd flail around just wide of the mark.

Medium pacers are your bass players. Sure, they’re good at putting the note in the right place, but no one really wants to talk to them.

Virender Sehwag is your lead guitarist who played that “amazing” solo that had all the kids talking for weeks. But the next day saw a series of bum notes, and so he smashed up his instrument and most of the bass player.

Spinners are your token trumpet players. Both trumpet players and spinners are cool. And sexy. But, strangely, this does not result in much interest from women. See what I mean? They bugger up the system.

Graeme Smith is the dad that volunteered to compere to tell them their time is up. They all hate Graeme Smith.

So, you see, if you think about this enough, you’ll see how this match was just like the battle of the bands.

Sehwag is the brown tape of the sellotape world

Virender Sehwag scored 300 and everyone is excited. This was perhaps one of the best innings in the history of test cricket. Not only because of the fierce heat and the ferocious strokeplay, but because so many people had written off Sehwag only a few months again.

And like your finest roll of brown tape, Sehwag calmly and efficiently covered everything with his shiny and strong cellulose-based, pressure-sensitive adhesive tape. Got the job done. Unlike pretanders Wasim “Masking Tape” Jaffer or Rahul “Duct Tape” Rahul, who only managed faintly sticky half centuries to Sehwag’s gloriously adhesive triple ton.

This was taping at its best. Exhibition taping.

To hit so cleanly, whilst playing so dangerously, rocks my tiny world. I assumed that this sort of play was reserved for the “quick fifty”, but, oh no, the Master of Taping turned my world upside down.

They who would craft a large innings over a period of time, I’m looking at you The Wall, scored substantially less than the Mighty Sehwag. They scored the half-centuries, whereas the biffer racked up a monster.

This makes no sense to me. I shall need a sit down to cope with this whole episode.

Suave reckons that our Virender will go on an beat Lara’s record. You know what, he might just be right.

AYALAC joins the 21st century

OK. I've finally set up a little email do-dah. It be there --->

If you would like to send me an email, feel free. However, to stop spammers, it requires that senders verify their email address before messages will get through to me. So no trying to sell me time bonds.

You can send me love letters at: ayalac@bluebottle.com

Sehwag knows where his Weetabix is

Virender Sehwag is, of course, most famous for his firm and lusty backside. But he is starting to make a name for himself as a cricketer, nay, a batsman to boot.

In this role as batter of men, he scores runs for his team, which are called “innings”. Conventially, all the team to contribute to a score greater than their own. However, after a period out of the side, Sehwag has alterated the laws of mathematics to suit his own game.

In an unexpected turn, Sehwag has scored 250, whereas the Indian team has only managed 202. Although the other batsmen scored small, but nonetheless positive scores, commentators are at a loss to explain this development.

Jimmy de Range said:

“Oh. He’s played an alright innings. Although, they should probably think about replacing the scorers here. Or the physicists.”

We all know that Sehwag is mad. Scoring 250 off 220 isn’t really test cricket. Scoring more than the team is also crazy. What is he doing? What is going on?

The answer is: I don’t know.

Running away in India

South Africa are touring India. We should all be excited about this. These are two big teams with players that not only understand the rules, but can use them to their advantage, too.

However, the excitement ends when you see the pitch. The groundsman didn’t so much as roll it out, tend it and make love to it, as is the normal custom, but he went to the nearest Dutch Restaurant and ordered an extra lifeless pankcake for this pitch.

The results can be seen in the gaping mouths of fans across the world: Graeme Smith, Neil McKenzie and a man with an upside down head scored runs.

In the Indians reply, Virender “My Arse Is Suprisingly Firm” Sehwag has already blitzed his way to 52 from 61 in an unbroken partnership of 82.

This looks like an intriguing match, but, by gum, the bowlers will have to work hard.

Right, now, the real point of this post. I’m thinking of going to India for a holiday in August. I have never been before, have a limited understanding of Indian geography and have only modest smatterings of French, German and Swahili. These languages, I understand, are not widely spoken in India.

So, people of the great blogosphere, where should I go? What should I do? And how should I do it?

West Indies make meek surrendering noises

Two of my favouritest cricket sides are playing at the moment: The West Indies and Sri Lanka.

We all of us retain an affection for the Windies because they used to be great, and most of their players seem so damned cool. Sri Lanka has charmed the pants off the rest of us because of their apparent niceness.

In the First Test, the Lankans beat the West Indies by 121 runs. Centuries by Mahela Jayawardene and some bloke I’ve never heard of in the first innings secured a handsome 476 for the Lankans.

The West Indies gently succumbed in their first innings, avoiding a follow-on but still conceding a 194-run deficit.

From there, it was a classic cricket set up of dominant side pressing for a win against a gritty rearguard grinding for a draw. But, after some brave stands, the Windies finally lost their pluck.

There is something increasingly Bangladesh-like in the Windies’ loses. Here are there last 12 games:

Mar 22-26, 2008 – lost to Sri Lanka by 121 runs.
Jan 10-12, 200 – lost to South Africa by an innings and 100 runs.
Jan 2-5, 2008 – lost to South Africa by seven wickets.
Dec 26-29, 2007 – beat South Africa by 128 runs.
Jun 15-19, 2007 – lost to England by seven wickets.
Jun 7-11, 2007 – lost to England by 60 runs.
May 25-28, 2007 – lost to England by an innings and 283 runs.
May 17-21, 2007 – drew to England.
Nov 27-Dec 1, 2006 – lost to Pakistan by 199 runs.
Nov 19-23, 2006 – drew to Pakistan.
Nov 11-14, 2006 – lost to Pakistan by nine wickets.
Jun 30-Jul 2, 2006 – lost to India by 49 runs.

It is, of course, troubling that they have only won once from the last twelve (and their previous win was in 2005), but is most concerning for me is the margin.

The main criticism of Bangladesh’s cricket is that they are rolled over which such ease, to the point that some are demanding their withdrawal from test cricket. But, judging by the Windies’ record, they are just as suspect.

So England win

Put your Smug Boots on, chaps, England won a test series abroad. It has been a while since anyone has said that. Nevertheless, some England fans are treating this as an effective loss. I’m not sure why, I think that most of them are stuck on “whine” mode.

Some are confused as to where their loyalties lie, others focus on the positives, and the rest don’t care.

Generally, I think our boys did well – players AND management. We went there under-cooked and over-confident. The Kiwis taught us a lesson during the ODIs, but we still didn’t get the picture and consequently lost the first test.

Then, drastic action was taken, and we saw a substantial improvement. Shockingly, both Matthew Hoggard and Steve Harmison were dropped. And I suspect the rest of the team received a barracking.

Then centuries and five-fors began to emerge – a sure sign of a settled side composed of quality individuals.

Sure, the New Zealanders aren’t the Harlem Globetrotters, but all you can do is beat the team in front of you. England did that, so fair play to them.

More encouraging, was the decisive way in which the temporary inadequacies of the performance were dealt with. So, plaudits to Peter Moores, too.

So, do we make any special mentions? Yes. Yes we do.

Firstly, to the Kiwis, although you looked generally rubbish and at times desperate, but there are some positive indicators for the future: Ross Taylor looks competent; Jamie How should be scoring runs soon; and young Tim Southee put in an exceptional performance on his debut. His mad innings of 77 from 48 balls, giving him a test average of 136, and his five-for opening the bowling is an impressive feat for the most gormless man in international cricket.

Lastly, to the England, what to say? A typical up-and-down knock-a-bout for us loyal fans. However, by far and away the most consistent and penetrating team-member was Ryan Hairybottom. His awesomely simple bowling destroyed the Kiwis. And for that… I appoint Sir Siders as the new OFFICIAL GOD.

Hurrah!

Name That Bum #3: Answer

We have a winner to the latest Name That Bum. It was, of course, Virender Sehwag.

Congratulations to random commenter, Silver, who worked out the answer very quickly. As always, I compose a poem in your honour:

There once was a young blogger called Silver,

Maybe it's Aravinda De Silva?

Perhaps from Sri Lanka?

Or a merchant banker?

To be honest, I've never heard of ya,

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

Video 8: The Vaughan Identity

Full highlights from the second test match between New Zealand.

Sorry about the delay in posting this. Chocolate Easter Eggs got in my way

Name that bum #3

OK chaps and chappettes, you know the score.You have to identify the international cricketer in the shots below. Same rules as last time, please give you answers in the comments.

Winners will have a poem written in their honour.

Good luck, and good bumming.

Clue 1

Clue 2

Clue 3

Can you....NAME THAT BUM?

The trouble with Strauss

As many young, embittered economists have discovered, the real world rarely conforms to the neat axioms and models you create. You say that if X, then Y. But, in reality, X results in seagull. So, no Nobel Prize for you.

Andrew Strauss encapsulates this dynamic nicely. After England’s pisspoor first innings performance in the third test of their series against New Zealand, English fans wanted change. We wanted blood. Batsmen’s blood.

First on our list was Straussy. Sure, he was a class act, with a proven track-record against strong opposition, but that was then, this is now. It’s like putting your 14 year-old child into a little sailor’s outfit; it would have looked cute ten years ago. But things have changed: he’s into drugs and girls now – not cuteness.

It was in this context of the sailor suit of death swinging perilously over Andrew Strauss in which he had to prove himself. He was not long for this world. We began to make plans: Surely Owais Shah will be the next Don Bradman.

Then Strauss hit a big score. He held England’s innings together with a massive 177. Indeed, he saw out the third day on 173 not out. It was a masterful and professional performance.

This irritating success, coupled with the rather un-English and frankly greediness of the unnecessarily large hundred, has buggered up all our lovely plans about a perfect future of no Andrew Strausses.

No one is sure what to do now. We can’t really have a go at the ECB, they selected a player who made a substantial contribution. That he has done so is annoying as hell, but it is sort of the point of the game.

I’ll just have to find a secondary, rather irrelevant point and take out my anger on that. WHAT! YOU DIDN’T HAVE AN EXTRA COVER FOR JIMMY?!?! YOU BASTARDS! I’LL KILL YOU ALL.

Strangely, that does feel better. In any case, well done Straussy. Please don’t get crap again.

Spring springs on England

Spring has sprung; grass is riz. At last, we Englanders can crawl out of our hibernation. The daffodils rise. The birds tweet. The hedgehogs roll freely across the motorway of their eventual demise.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, now we can be sure that England is finally turning the tide, putting the months of cold and darkness behind us, and look forward to a sunnier future.

Ryan Hairybottom proved to us that the prospect for England is rosy. Not just rosy. But tulipy and chrysthamumy too. In a sterling display of bowling, he took seven wickets for just 47 runs.

This is better than the hearing the first songbird of spring. An England cricketer who does well on the international scene is like the joy of a foot massage and a cup of tea rolled into one.

Hairybottom’s success sends sweet waves of shivering joy throughout the pools of England cricket fans everywhere. And for this I am grateful.

In a stunning turnaround, after England performed with the bat like my dog does with this evening’s sausages, New Zealand returned the favour and showed the world just how bad batting can get.

Of course, excepting Stephen Fleming, although humanity was willing him to, he failed to hit that ever elusive century.

We all of us love Fleming. Maybe it’s his quiet demeanour. His understated success. Or perhaps it’s because he so openly hates Graeme Smith. Whatever it is, I think I speak for the entire human race when I say: try not to choke out of a hundred in your last innings. Only, don’t make it a big one, if you please.

New Zealand have done exceptionally badly to let England off like this. I would imagine that it was difficult to watch from a Kiwian perspective; rather like viewing toddlers play by the roadside.

But, for an Englishman, it was certainly worth staying up to God’s Knows O’clock, enduring Geoffrey Boycott’s misanthropy, sitting through tedious lunchtime breaks, and coping with bizarre mergers of test match cricket and my dreamworld were all worth it for those occasional moments of abrupt introductions to conscious delight.

NOTE: I have received a few confused emails from Australian readers. They are baffled at the above strange picture of white weirdness. To inform our friends down under, in England, we call this substance “icy death from the sky”. It is difficult to handle. The English method of dealing with such a crisis is to retreat under your blankets with a cup of hot cocoa, until it goes away. This usually takes the same amount of time as how long it takes to walk from your bed to a chartered airline headed for the Mediterranean.

If you do note heed this advice, you will look like the people in the below photograph.

England are 36 for 4

All hail China! Our future! Our leaders!

Andrew Strauss: Worthy of equipment?

I have an idea. England’s batsmen should earn the right to wear protective equipment. If you have, say, averaged 40 plus in the last ten matches, you get to wear the whole works – pads, gloves, the lot.

However, if you are, say, Ian Bell, and have been getting runs, but not converting fifties into centuries, then you are prohibited from wearing a helmet. You’re doing ok, but if you don’t shape up, you risk the chance of concussion and series brain damage.

If you name is Andrew Strauss, then you are denied the use of a box.

That’s incentive enough for any man.

You may expect a slightly bitter tone here. You wouldn’t be far wrong. I have just fired up Test Match Special, and I join my team on eight runs for the loss of three wickets.

England have thrown away much chance of winning the series, because of some kid, who the Kiwis snuck out of school, demolished our upper order in under five minutes.

Only severe pain at the hands of our enemies can rectify this. Constant and significant physical discomfort is the only chance that our batters will learn that being a useless collection of over-paid scarecrows is not acceptable to The Atheist.

I demand that Peter Moores hides the squad’s protective equipment.

Clash of greens

I think we’re getting a little parochial in AYALAC. Today I will post about things that are not directly related to The England or bums.

Ireland are currently playing Bangladesh. Both sides have been categorised as “developing”, one is that top of the class kid that the bigger boys like to bully and the other is that kid who has received a few too many blows about the head with a shovel, but occasionally is capable of an amazing judo move.

For fun, try and look back at your school days, and sort yourself into one of these groups.

Unfortunately (well I am sort of half Irish) our boys in light green lost to the boys in dark green in the first ODI. Ireland had a game that can only be described as a “shocker”. They were rolled over for 185, which the Tigers chased down in fewer than forty overs and with eight wickets to spare.

The Irish have done slightly better in the second ODI, by containing Bangladesh to 246/8. Well, I say “contain”, I mean, “prevent a ravishing.” Their attack was let by Dave Langford-Smith – that’s right, he of The Ferret fame – who managed 3-43.

Sadly, there is no sign of the Bangladesh Bop, although neutrals are hoping for a “dance out” in the case of a tied game.

It is unfortunate that I have posted mid-way through the match, but as Ireland stand at 112/5, it seems as though defeat is returning to Irish shores faster than you can say “Irish stereotype.”

I could say something serious here. I could point out the huge grant that was allocated to the Irish after a hugely successful World Cup. I could mention the disappointment that followed. The abysmal county performances. The large debts that their administrators racked up. But I won’t mention any of this.

Instead I will say: Ah Jesus, t’is our boys that’s coming now. They’re the Jockey’s bollocks, to be sure.

Official AYALAC line on those Indian leagues

Be warned, this post is angry.

Right, the Indian Premier League (IPL) is rubbish. Let’s get that cleared out of the way. I have kept quiet on these twenty20 competitions because I don’t like twenty20. But now is the time for the noisy minority to speak out.

First came the Indian Cricket League - a rubbishy enterprise that sought to make lots of money from has-been or never-will-be cricketers. “Oh! That’s a terrible idea!” moaned the BCCI, “You’ll ruin cricket.”

But then they saw how much money could be made, and then they thought, “Bugger cricket! Let’s go for the money.”

Of course, this is a perfectly reasonable thought, if you are in a position to realise it, selling out for cash is always a good idea. However, I am not, so I think it’s a rubbish thought.

Now, the BCCI has decided that its raison d'etre is to make money, it is acting like any monopolistic firm would: it is clamping down on its competitors to maximise profits.

You might argue that the world cricket boards are behaving in an oligopolistic fashion – a small number of firms acting as a cartel to control the market. But you would be wrong; damn wrong.

The BCCI is the Big Daddy of the cricketing world, if Daddy wants other boards to ban players for playing in an unsanctioned league, then Daddy gets.

It is at this point that the analogy of sensible mechanisms of a free markets break down. Players are workers (bear with me) just like us; they sell their labour for money. Nothing wrong with that.

In any normal market, you apply to different firms, see who can offer you the most. Oh no, not in the BCCI’s market. The Daddy doesn’t want players to chose. Daddy wants them to be his bitches. AND WHAT DADDY WANTS, DADDY GETS.

Because Daddy wants a piece of the action, the other boards are struggling to pussy-foot their domestic schedules around Daddy. The IPL, generally, does not impact upon many other leagues – all except England’s, of course.

The early season of the English county championship overlaps with the IPL, so some of our more exciting players will be tempted away to the sub-continent. Even touring Kiwis are requesting permission to bugger off.

What that’s, little one-legged, orphan-boy, Jimmy? You want to watch your favourite, Dimitri Mascarenhas play at Hampshire this season? You’ll be saving up for ages for that ticket?

Well tough totty. DADDY WANTS DIMITRI MASCARENHAS.

The worst thing about this whole endeavour is that no-one knows why they are doing it.

The IPL bases itself around English football’s Premier League – the most soulless of all the football leagues. People come from all over the world to play in places like Middlesborough. Adoring fan attempt to scream unprenouceable names as if the centre forward from Burkina Faso was actually their mate Pete who works in the chip shop.

They don’t care they. As long as “their” side wins. They recognise money is necessary for this – everyone else has money, right?

Ah. That’s why we’re doing this. Money. Of course. How incredibly stupid of me. Money is important to have in the game, isn’t it?

Just look at England, historically loaded with government grant after government grant, and look how wisely they have spent it. Look how good our team is.

What! Am I suggesting that there is no evidence that shows that money has improved the game? Surely not! The administrators tell us without money the game would die. If the kiddies playing in the street weren’t sponsored by Arse Ltd., they would literally put down their bats and play golf. Literally.

It’s odd to think how India won the World Cup in 1983, when its Board wasn’t nearly as rich as it is now. Must have been a fluke. Cricket wasn’t as good as it is now. That’s FACT. Just look at the money involved.

Bollocks to you IPL. Bollocks to you twenty20. Bollocks to you BCCI. Bollocks to the cricket administrators. Bollocks to the lot of you.

Right. Well, lets lighten the mood, shall we? (Well done on getting this far.) On a happier note, King Cricket has grown up, and put into print. That’s right, paper!

When you thinking you’re doing OK as a blogger, someone like JRod comes along, and blogs his way into the annuals of legendary bloggers overnight. His excellent site has just started a new podcast series. Well worth a listen to.

Those blogs are happy places.

Alastair Cook nude

Yes. That's right. Naked pictures of Alastair Cook today.

Because that's what you sick people come here for!

Picture 1: Alastair Cook offering you some Champers.

Picture 2: A dignified Alastair Cook takes off his trousers in front of a camera, whilst waiter looks on, awed in respect.

Picture 3: Alastair Cook indulges himself in some streaking. A favoured past-time.

Picture 4: Alastair Cook also doubles as a part-time eye-liner fairy, friend to women everywhere.

If you are worried by the homo-erotic turn of the site, don't worry, you are not alone. I'll get back to the cricket once I have realised how rubbish I am at Paintbrush.

Until that point, it'll be perv-a-plenty!

Name that bum #2: Answer

The answer to the latest Name That Bum competetion was, of course, Makhaya Ntini. Easy!

Once again, the eerie determination of Suave, from Cricket Republique, won the day. Just like last time.

However, although I promised a poem composed in the honour of the winner, I also promised myself that I would never go through the hell finding rhymes for his bloody name again.

So, as I have the ol’ Paintbrush out, I will make a drawing to his Suaveness.
Tune in next week for….NAME THAT BUM.

ICC indulges in abstract recruitment

Who’s the next ICC boss?

Well, no one really knows. It’s all a bit of a cock-up.

The ICC wants Imtiaz Patel, who currently works for “SuperSport” (don’t ask, I don’t know), and have announced his appointment in “abstract” terms. Above is an artistic interpretation of those terms.

See, I’m feeling a bit creative at the moment, as I went to the Tate Modern yesterday. However, as is the way with modern art, I was repeatedly made to feel like a pervert. In one of the seedy, small side-rooms of the exhibition they show short films by artists.

In one such private booth, I watched a fantastic film called “Meat Joy.” It essentially filmed an orgy, where a large number of people perform erotic acts on pieces of meat. Just as I was watching an actress grind happily against a dead fish, a woman entered the room.

She looked at the film. She looked at the depravity. Then she turned at looked at me. She looked at my depravity. Her disgust bore through me like a Denis Lillie bouncer. She left, appalled. I left, ashamed.

Later, I found another little video room. “What can be in here?” I innocently thought.

A film showing a woman, behind a strip of paper. Fairly innocuous, I thought. She then wrote her name on the paper. Perfectly normal, I mused, but what could it mean? Then see began to tear away at the paper, gradually revealing to the me, and me alone, that she wasn’t wearing anything.

Just as ripped off the last, crucial screen, she stood there naked before me. Her eyes were full of disgust, “you pervert” she silently said. At this moment, the same women who walked in on me during my meat shame strolled in. She looked at the naked person on film. She then turned at me. She seemed surprised to see me, and then not surprised to see me.

They both stared at me. I had to sit and absorb the revulsion of two women, one naked and on film, one real and sickened by my deviancy.

I just wanted to look at some pretty pictures.

Anyway, above is my interpretation of the ICC’s current situation.

So, who is this Imtiaz Patel fella? By all accounts, he sounds like a prat. Ken Borland, a South African sports journalist, noted,

"While he always exudes polite charm in public, Patel is known to have a scathing tongue in the privacy of the boardroom and even hardened former cricketers who work as commentators for SuperSport are known to slink into the corners when he lets fly."

This is deeply unprofessional and prattish behaviour.

But, I wouldn’t mind this, so long as he liberated the ICC from its current status as “play thing of the BCCI.”

Yeah…that’s all I have to say.