How to prepare for the Ashes

England water-treading batsman

It’s so easy to dislike English batsman. English conditions breed cautious, accumulators that seek to defend their wicket and poke the singles. A well-fought four-hour 32 is a significant achievement. A ten-minute 32 is “airy”. The net effect, of course, is the same, but somehow, in England, longevity has a gravitas denied to quick, if effective innings. This is why Marcus Tresocothick, arguably England’s best batsman of modern times, dipped below the radar.

So, anyway. We have a number of grinders. Alastair Cook, Paul Collingwood, Jonathan Trott and even Andrew Strauss. They all scratch away and their places are perennially under question. However, they are all still class, god dammit, and have an infuriating habit of scoring a century just on the cusp of being dropped. This buys them a few more opportunities to nurdle out a string of painful 20s.

England’s “consistency” approach allows for these sort of players to exploit a failing in the system. The principles of England enlightened selection policy is to pick on the basis of long-term performance, not immediate flashes in the pain. Players positions are awarded on the basis of performance over a number of games, allowing occasional failures in return of significant contributions elsewhere.

But, this is not so. When a player comes under threat, we take a long term approach, but, when he’s scored runs, and specially scored one more run than 99, then we take a short-term approach, and all before is forgotten.

So, players that consistently under-perform, but will occasionally produce runs, will be secured of a long-term position in the team. Half of England’s top-order have averaged under 40 during 2010. Yet, they just about do enough to stay in.

I agree with the consistency policy, but perhaps it should be shaken up once in a little while?

International standard of cricket about to plummet

John Buchanan, he of Cricket Australia fame, has said:

England will dominant the world of cricket in 3-4 years time.

This can only mean that a nuclear war between Australia, India, South Africa and Afghanistan will wipe out all the competition.

In an interesting aside, the ECB suggested that it didn't have the budget to employ the most successful manager in history. It's probably going on "grass-roots" cricket, but which we mean, of course, costly architectural statements in provincial grounds.

Pakistan vs England: where clichés collide

There’s an article on cricinfo entitled Pakistan’s nature vs England’s nurture. Obviously I refuse to go near anything like that.

As an Englishman, I have been happily free of any nurturing or maternal love by the cricketing establishment. Not my mum though. She’s ace. Although, she didn’t give me the excellent rhubarb-based education that was afforded to Geoffrey Boycott.

So! England’s woefully ungifted line-up play Pakistan’s backstreet bruisers. You see, Englishmen have no talent, by they do have oodles of coaching manuals. That’s how this works. Pakistan, however, doesn’t have any coaching manuals. Or coaches. But they do have heart.

Characterising a test match as a Rocky sequel is an excellent way to put off sniffy cricket fans – such as AYALAC. So, here in Atheist Towers, we have developed a sure-fire to prevent cliché rage.

1. There will be inhalations of surprise when a Pakistan batsman plays a forward defensive. Anticipate this by blowing the air back into the breathers’s judgemental maw during the stroke. This should balance the background bastardliness that pervades the universe.
2. At some point, an English batsmen will play a stroke. It is possible that runs will follow. It is certain that the commentator will chortle, “ho ho ho, he’s being watching too much Afridi!” An eye-roll will not suffice. Bellow. Bellow with all the anger that years of missed opportunities and unnaturally high expectations have given you.
3. You friends may reflect any of these opinions prevalent in the press. Steely stares or years of unexplained silence are the best way to deal with this.
4. Upon hearing a commentator saying “thank god he didn’t have that coached out of him”, perform three rollie-pollies whilst saying “thereisnotoothfairythereisnotoofairythereisnotoothfairythereisnotoothfairy”.
5. In response to the word “mercurial” kick the nearest man in suit, kindly-looking old woman or pigeon.

Pakistan give lazy headline writers enough material for three years

Pakistan are “mercurial”. We know this because confirmation bias says it is so.

Unless you are Bangladesh, your side will experience of a mixture of wins and losses. This is called life. You win some, you lose some.

England have been doing it for years. Odd spots of brilliance, individual efforts that occasionally win a match, caste against a general schedule of underperformance and defeat. We call it “inconsistency”. It was England’s big problem for ages.

Pakistan have the same problem. Exactly the same. Only we have a different word for them. They are “mercurial”. This means that they win some games, but lose others. This is pretty much normal, but in our happy group-think world, this has become a big problem.

In each case, the analysis has taken a life of its own, and, although the problems are seemingly identical, the diagnosis differs and therefore the prescription are different.

For England, we needed to give mediocre players as many games as possible until they discover their previously well-concealed talents. Until they were dropped. In fairness, a selectoral policy that encourages stability has been successful, and did address underlying weaknesses.

For Pakistan, their mercurialness obviously required Geoff Lawson. Although, Pakistan’s incomprehensibly incompetent management, with a history of spectacularly self-destructive and inexplicable acts, stands as the country’s man obstacle to international success.

The solution to this might be to hand its governance to a distant, level-headed, impartial and moderately successful body. Perhaps the managing board of the Umbongo Juice Company?

Anyway, Pakistan is wildly unpredictable and, quite frankly, mad. The leadership issued life bans to its two best players for expressing doubt as to the leadership’s wisdom. The captaincy is awarded through a bingo competition over the morning’s cornflakes. This is later taken away if the captain opts for toast. Or Rice Krispies. Or whatever breakfast offends the coaches on the day.

Then, the team, despite the heavy weather, the game goes on, and Pakistan bowl out Australia for under 100 and chase down their total in under a day.

The hacks just sit back and lap it up.

If god was an Irishman…

…the world would look much as it does now.

England have discovered an incredible talent in their team. And it’s Ireland. Of someone of Irish dissent myself, I have long foreseen the Irish eventually embracing the archaic eccentricity of cricket. And perhaps Eoin Morgan’s rapid elevation to most valuable one-day asset will further spur the sport’s development in the Republic.

Even during the T20 World Cup, Morgan was England’s most prolific batsman, winning the match for them on more than one occasion. Now, his thunderous century against the Australian proves his world-class value.

England must be thinking that, much like KP, his prolific, if unorthodox, talent may translate to success at test level. Morgan has both the temperament and the ability to score a lot of runs, and surely our snobbishness about the shorter formats would do well to focus on these attributes.

Sadly, cricket rarely gets me excited these days. Let alone the increasingly tedious money-grabbing matches. But, that young Morgan gets me going, to be sure.

Pietersen: down and out in Middlesex and Surrey

England’s best batsman is homeless. Not only is this hilarious, but the entire process is ludicrously managed.

The first role of handing in your notice is: (1) make sure you have another job to go to.

What does Pietersen do? Well. He suddenly downs tools in Hampshire, mid-season and without warning, and declares his intention to play for a London side.

The reason for this is that he lives in Chelsea – a fashionable barrio of London’s oligarch belt – and can’t be bothered to commute to Southampton. Which is a hole.

Perfectly understandable, of course, but, what we management gurus know, it’s all about the process. More or less every process KP has in life tends to cock up. Except batting of course, but even that is subject to some dubious decision-making. Yet, his genius is only qualified by his raging stupidity in other areas in life. And KP’s range of savant idiocy appears wider than most.

Now, the London clubs are fighting feverously to avoid picking him. Undoubtedly, the ECB is leaning heavily on both teams behind the scenes to pick up their wonder-moron. Pity the county that is left with the short straw.

Pietersen’s gift to the cricket community is not his excellent batting, but his celebrity gossip potential. Much like pre-pubescent girls, cricket fans paw over the former England captain’s failings in microscopic detail. Each hairy shot is magnified, dissected and derided.

That our own figures are woefully inadequate is irrelevant. KP’s gifts the world with repeated blunders. Under the cutting scrutiny of an unloving audience, nearly every non-covering driving activity is a slip-up.

And we wouldn’t have him any other way.

Players want their cake and rights over the sprinkles

As I waiting for my hair to be cut, I flicked over today’s copy of the Mirror. A paper that I am not familiar with, although, to takes approximately thirty seconds to get a comprehensive appreciation of the world according to the Red Top. With the inexorable flick to the back pages, I found an intriguing cricket story.

Stuart Broad delivered a Broadside to the England management regarding his unfair resting during the tests against Bangladesh. He spent two weeks of intensive strength and fitness building instead. About this he was annoyed.

Apparently, James Anderson was also “angry” at being left out on the world cup.

And my barber’s face was fixated into a so concentrated it looked comically angry, I mulled over the English player’s moans. It didn’t seem so long ago that English boys were whining about too much cricket.

Now that the ECB took the logical course of action by resting players against weak opposition, The players aren’t happy about this. They want to play in all games.

Case in point: virtually no one wants another ridiculous series against Australia. (When was the last time we played Sri Lanka?) And the players are expressing doubt.

But none of them want to be “rested”. Ideally, we’d all like less cricket played. But, that’s not possible for the foreseeable solution. So what other solution is available?

Controversy is red flavoured

Old Trafford has a new box. It’s big. It’s red. It has no discernable point. I think it’s fantastic.

One of the best things about modern architecture is amusingly attaching funny names to new developments. It refreshingly demeans the serious and arty pretentious work of people that have spent an extraordinary amount of time and effort on a sizeable undertaking.

I love modern architecture. I especially love the brand that pisses on its ‘historic’ surroundings from a great height. Take a look at your average ‘attractive’ street in any major city, and you will see an angry mix of contrasting style in different periods. ‘Modern architecture’ in a hundred years ago was slammed against more established buildings. People moaned. But then those people died and then the art become an accepted part of the landscape. A horizon that must never be touched again.

People, especially those that are well-informed, talk rubbish about architecture. People object to new buildings simply because of the change. What is your reaction when a website with which you are familiar changes its design? That’s right. You hate it. You need to think a bit, and work out new ways to find the stuff you like. Then you accept it.

This is how our urban environment works. Designs, over which we have no influence, are thrust upon us either before or after we are born. Good designs survive. Bad designs are replaced. Over-stylised Victorian terraces remains; concrete carbuncles are dynamited.

The Point has that magical, 'floating' quality - that strange sense of a large object levitating above the ground. The lines are clear, and interesting. It is, despite the reactionary instincts against the new, beautiful.

Top work Old Trafford.

Hoggard’s captaincy

Be careful what you wish for. Years ago, I started a campaign for Matthew Hoggard, hammer of the metrosexuals, to be appointed captain of the England cricket team. Considering that he was beaten to the post by Kevin Pietersen, England once again overlooked my sagely advice.

However, for flimsy reasons, Hoggard was expelled from the England side for good. Another badly treated player, despite talent and good heart.

Replicating his success with England, Yorkshire also sacked him, despite years of service and being from Yorkshire. Which, apparently, counts for something up there.

So. Off he went to Leicestershire. Suicidally, they gave him the captaincy.

What could go wrong with giving the leadership and future of your entire team to man whose autobiography boasts that “he’s mad as a box of frogs”?

Last weekend, I watched Hoggard’s captaincy with interest. Essentially, it involved give the ball to his excessively tall spinners and watch Surrey do the jig of asthmatic doom. He was perhaps overcautious. Refusing to place a silly point, despite the ball lobbing up there repeatedly, and a massive first innings lead.

What struck me about Hoggard was that strangely corporate approach to management.

Of course, giving Hoggard an entire team to shape in his image was asking for trouble. Will Jefferson, for instance, loudly followed a train of thought from mentioning Nelson, then musing on Nelson Mandela and then a few tasteful references to Robin Island.

The captain, however, was the king of the endless dribble. Hoggard’s late session bleating about varieties of wine, Guinness and Bulmer’s eventually faded into the background. Much like the irritating nagging of an unwanted grandmother. AYALAC, as you would have noticed, is all for mindless, non-sensical chatter. But it's all about the context.

Weirdly, it was Hoggard’s insistence for “energy” that struck me. This rang discordant bells of shitty managers from years ago. Managers that would use phrases like “gang”, “guys” and “let’s do this!” Managers that used mindless dribble as a force for evil - instead of good.

Players that didn’t produce sufficient quantities of mindlessly bleating were publicly admonished. When a boundary was scored after the dressing down was delivered, the person would be isolated further with a few more barbs.

Occasionally, Hoggard would muse at length at the verbal reticence of targeted individual. The team would fall into an embarrassed silence. The worst way to build a team’s “energy” is by an authority finger victimising them with sarcastic comments.

Today the Hoggard for Captain Campaign dies. With regret.

Bangladesh know how to hold a bat

England's team is made up of South Africans, Australians, Irish and now a Finn

Commeth the man, commeth the cliches.

Steven Finn, England's best bowler, is no Steven Finn. He is a combination of other older people. Some of those people are dead. Angus Fraser, for instance, has a claim to Steven Finn's bowling.

Others include Glen McGrath, Joel Garner and Shaun Pollock.

Of course, one day, people might say that young Jonny Badgers has something of the Steven Finn about him. Of course, the more mediocre Finn's career, the more knowledgeable this apparently obscure reference will seem. Then again, most Finnish players do seem destined to receive history's cold shoulder.

Lovers of cricket trivia may wish, therefore, for Finn's career to sputter and fail to history overpowering muscle, much as the 1939 capitulation of the Winter War. The rest of us, however, will hope that Finn becomes good.

It has been some time since England had a good bowler. The side normally sports a revolving turbo door of mediocre seamers, whereas the batsmen's name lingers long in the annual of national success. That Ryan Sidebottom ever played test cricket, is testament to this disbalance. And James Anderson? Exactly. James. Anderson.

The Finn, whose favourite meal may or may not be raw reindeer testicles, could offer England an "interesting" bowling option. Not a potentially frightening prospects, such as Steven Harmison or Andrew Flintoff, but, if he continues to plug away a consistent he'll probably get more wickets than either of them.

Mushfiqur Rahim's face

Walking photo-shop?

England’s incredible global domination continues, much in the style of Genghis Khan, Napoleon or Starbucks

A step up from its previous opponents, England have locked horns with the Tigers. No opposition is as fearsome as horned tigers.

To those of us who have temporary flicked our attention away from the shrieking international cricket schedule, to, you know, take a glance at burning Bangkok, economic meltdown in Europe and impending nuclear war in the Korean Peninsula, the Bangladesh tour has come as a surprise.

It was only five minutes ago that England were wrapping up a famous win against the Aussies. And only seconds ago since we won the T20 World Cup.

But now, England continue metering out punishment to its lesserlings, with 100% English Jonathan Trott putting the Tigers to the elephant gun.

There were a few eager comments regarding Bangladeshis’ ‘promising’ bowlers, in that there were a few balls that were ok. But, let’s be honest. They’re crap.

The tourists nullified England’s foremost threat, Kevin Pietersen, by cleverly giving the ball to the person who bowls left-handed. And, maybe a few more successes might get them back in the game. But generally, its one way traffic, only, less dangerous. Maybe heavy traffic. A no way traffic jam, perhaps.

But, as we England fans can readily impart, there is always hope.

A few more wickets might get the Bangladeshis really going. There is nothing as fearsome as horney tigers.

A close brush with success

Today, I went to work conference. Don’t worry. I didn’t learn anything, and I came away with my free share of booze and pens. A success. Apparently, though, I shared the hotel venue with none other than the England cricket team.

I should have been alerted to this by the quantity of short sweaty, red-faced bald men shuttling about the rooms kitted out in England gear. I didn’t think much of this. There are small, exhausted looking men everywhere.

But, my colleagues eventually informed me, I missed an obvious equation:

Puffy-faced + red chops + total lack of hair + sports gear = professional cricketer

The place was crawling with Englanders. In my spiral of pen-bingeing booze-outs, I missed all of them. I was probably the only person in the whole bloody place that would take an interest in unseemly idol ogling, and yet it was left to a conference of bland suits to ignorantly glance at the more famous of the puffy-faced gingers.

At least I scored three paper pads.

If anyone wants to know where they are, I will happily tell you. But only in return for a free corporate branded item of stationery.

England cricket team form new government

Engorged with the flesh of their prey, England cricket team's blood-lust and thirst for power saw them attempt a coup which toppled the Con-Dem coalition.

As a rouse for respectability, David Cameron was appointed as puppet prime minister. Mimicking the successful Conservative Party strategy.

The Liberal Democrats were quickly swept aside by Side Bottom’s steady attack. Expert spin by Graeme Swann brought the opposition to mental disintegration.

“Please! Oh please!” supplicated a traduced Nick Clegg, “Oh please, Big Dave, can you help me get into power again. I don’t mind doing that thing that you like again.”

Yet Cameron was stuck on the back foot, his coalition partner was stumped and his own team consisted of red-meated thrashers that didn’t suit current conditions.

“Yes!” announced Cameron. “After much pretend soul-searching and mock consideration, I have decided that it is possible to sell my own party down the river, so long as I we can establish a joint commission on implementing a new selection policy which will recommend no change to the current policy of keeping Northerners out of the batting line-up.”

Foreign secretary Kevin Pietersen later released a press statement: “Do you want any copies made of that, Minister?”

Sources close to the Minister for Gingers believed that he responded with a hearty laugh.

ICC create new synthetic lifeform

Doctors promise to develop anti-biotic to wipe out this simple, if potentially nasty, lifeform.

Somerset win like the demons that they are

In the best match of the English domestic season so far, Somerset somehow managed to chase down 362 in the last innings in the last day. This they achieved off 68 overs.

Yorkshire rather helped them out, field a sporting declaration after their third innings 33-4 and a first innings advantage of 28.

Somerset’s charge was powered mainly by a 68-ball century from James Hildreth. Others also chipped in, notably Zander de Bruyn’s 93 and Marcus Tresocothik’s 53. But it was Hildreth’s fearsome stroke-play that gave the West Country lads belief.

The victory may not have been as assured, had Tino Best been at fall fitness.

But it probably would have been.

There are valuable lessons that we learn from this trouncing:

1) Be less like Yorkshire;
2) Be more like Somerset.

Key gets the early season big score

The season doesn’t really start in England until a freakishly large score comes out of no where. The plaudits for 2010 go to Rob Key, who smote 261 against Champions Durham.

Last year, Anthony McGrath scored a double hundred in Yorkshire’s first match of the season. In the previous season, Nicky Boje struck a 226* in April. In 2007, Marcus Trescothick battered an early triple century.

There is no reason why this is. All-knowing convention suggests that wet and windy early season matches are dominated by seam and swing. The flat pitches of late summer offer the best opportunity to cash in.

Yet, there are always flamboyant big scores that stand out for attention.

Of course, there it could always be statistical happenchance, but, there is something special about these early big scores. Even if they are coupled with other large centuries, our attention is unfairly directed towards the towering figure, that we see lording the coming season in a Ramprakash-like dominance.

They never do mind, and those that are first out of the blocks are soon over-taken by others.

But the specialness of the crisp big hundred of the summer, still fresh upon the eager eyes of fans, will happily rest in our minds as the other figures, calculations and statistics as gradually dispersed.

‘England’ win

We live in a multi-cultural age. Sharing identities in different religions, professions and ethnicities. People are more Venn diagrams of various interests, collating diverse understandings of what it is to be a person. We are living in an enlightened age of acceptance, tolerance and openness.

Yet, why the buggering bumblebees must we to pack our side with bloody Saffers?

Why in the name of all that is Sir Garfield and holy do we persist in this farce? Even my local mumbling librarian can see that this is wrong. And she wears purple corduroy jackets.

Now, I don’t want to get all BNP on you, but, really, what is the point of international sports if it doesn’t provide an acceptable vent for our racist, nationalist, parochial, aggressive, bastardly tendencies?

Great. A load of guys acting under the England brand beat some other guys. Now, let’s flick over to the IPL and watch the same again, only with reshuffled players and more gratuitous boob wobbling.

International cricket is special because it can tap into my grey, crusty heart, and enliven some passion in my otherwise monotone world. The stirring of petty and tribal instincts are considered base and unworthy. But why? Other appetites are pandered universally: sex and food are vulgarised and over-elaborated requirements, whose rituals extend far beyond rational necessity.

Yet, these twin appetites probably constitute 90% of human mental activity. (Not ours, obviously.) Huge industries focus and heighten these demands, channelling them to ever more frenzied levels.

So, why can’t we enjoy a good old fashioned bit of tribal chest thumping? Why is that so different?

I found it very hard to obtain much pleasure out of Kevin Pietersen’s and Craig Kieswetter’s championship-winning innings. I could appreciate them, and enjoy them as a cricket artefact, much as I would when watching, say, Chris Gayle bat, but I could not cheer them on for the greater glory of Twickenham.

They were just some guys. They weren’t my guys. And, because of this, an elevation of ‘my’ team as supposedly the best in the world, does not feel as special as it should. Rather, the team that is currently based in the same country as me has one some trophy.

So. Give me good old fashioned English slumping at the second hurdle, and take your clinical, detached ‘successful’ cricket.