How many grades to side strains have?

I guess about 12. Of course, we all appreciate the subtle nuances between differing grades. So, there is no need to explain this to anyone.

We'll just continue mentioning it as if it has meaning, as if you understood and as if I wasn't a pontificating twat.

The final is here: to the pub

After cunningly whittling the foreign sides away through the targeted use of dodgy curries and water-borne diseases, only Asian teams remain.

But, where can we find a pub to watch the bloody game?

Only time will tell…

England and India amazing things - none of them matter

England and India did amazing things in a way that never could have come about in a T20 match. Yesterday’s match had laughter and tears. Both sets of fans enjoyed the pleasures snatching victory from the jaws of defeat… before allowing the other side to claw their way back again. And then it all went horribly agreeable.

Unfortunately – much like a political compromise – a tie left both sides feeling disappointed. “Oh” we all collectively thought, “so we didn’t win”.

Interestingly, the match, despite its drama, was still meaningless. Both sides will probably qualify. So. It was all just a waste of everyone’s time, really.

The match did show simply the relative ineptness of the bowling. Aside from Zaheer’s moment of maddeningness and Bresnan’s tedious reliability, neither time has sufficient firepower to blast their way to the world cup.

Sachin Tendulkar, though, eh? Fluky bloody bastard.

The big match: who will be the biggest disappointment?

So. World Cups. You don’t get them that often. Only about once a year – in between Ashes tours.

The weekend brings England’s big match. We play tournament favourites, India. People think India will win because they are “local” and therefore their side is immune to debilitating toilet strikes which bedevil sides coming from the “potable water belt” from where most of the other participating countries come – as well as the non-cricket playing nations also.

Local boys also include Bangladesh, Pakistan and Sri Lanka. All these countries share the same strategy of having one or two alright players and then the rest used chiefly to clean up the skids marks off the others’ kit. So hopefully the sub-continental sides will turn up nicely over the next twenty weeks.

Much has been made of the money-grabbing length of the tournament. Personally, I like cricket. Similarly to that annoying bloke on the train who simply cannot get enough of his ring tone, I can happily watch Pakistan destroy Kenya again and again. Especially when all hope of an upset is extinguished within the first ten minutes.

Anyway. England. A knackered bunch of workhorses far from home for too long. Children’s lives are missed, wives are abandoned, girlfriends are restless. It’s as if the lesson of Alan Johnson have been entirely forgotten.

England will lose. I feel safer territory after the Ashes. England have been practicing that homesick brand of the game that we all familiarly know as “shit”. Even the Dutch took our bowlers to the cleaners. And no one know why the Netherlands plays cricket.

Don’t they have their own friends?

No. Nor do India, mind. But, the difference is: they shall beat England. Their kit will be the cleaner. Sreesanth will make sure of that.

Are Australia the new West Indies?

When I was a lad, I remember watching the 1995 West Indies tour of England. Little did I know at the time that I was witnessing a pivotal point in history. I was dimly aware of Windian dominance against England, but the well-fought draw did not itself suggest to me immanent collapse of the once strutting mega-stars.

I am now old enough to appreciate any such spectacles life throws at me today. I have experienced enough inevitable disappointments, sufficient certain disasters and a more than adequate amounts of predestined catastrophes to be able to spot future failures.

Now, as the Australian bunny blinks mindlessly back into my headlights, my mind quickly recalls the many fiascos in which it has participated, just before engaging the wind-screen wipers to remove the debris.

Unlike the current Australian side, the 1995 West Indies team had hope. They had some world class bowlers and a sprinkling of legendary batsman. Currently, Shane Watson has the role of Brian Lara.

But, it is difficult to see where the future lies for Australia. Much is made of the post 1986-7 cull, but who do they replace the old guard wife? Michael Beer and Phil Hughes?

No one wants to be captain. No one can captain.

No one can bowl, either. Not even Michael Beer.

There are glimmers of hope in the batting department. Much as there are glimmers of sanity in the Tea Party.

The only solution I can see is either scouring the English leagues for anyone who has a secret Australia shame in the bloodline – or a sun tan.

Or, merging with New Zealand. The Oceanic Islands may yet conquer the world.

Dreaming in the colour of cricket

The problem with cricket on the other side of the world is the poor hours it keeps. Last night, I feel asleep to the congenial banter between Jonathan Agnew and Vick Marks. Apparently, as a statement of support for pinkafied cancer awareness day, Marks sported a pair of pink pants.

Vaguely, my sleep-fogged mind caught the early wicket of James Anderson, the nightwatchman, but by then it was too late. The damage was done.

I eventually passed out, to be haunted be a night of terrible visions. Firstly, I dreamt that was a spectator at the SCG. Having never visited Australia, the ground took the form of something akin to a polo stadium in Libya.

Slowly, I, and some surprisingly rowdy friends, watched the innings unfold. Alastair Cook took a quick single and a fluke collection saw the stumps thrown down. An appeal was made, but so languid was Cook’s run that it appeared a rather optimistic enquiry.

The third umpire’s screen loomed large over us. I saw that Cook was out of his ground upon impact. I reported to this to my disbelieving colleagues. Cook’s innings was over. A disaster. A collapse.

Never fear, Kevin Pietersen was next man in. A good opportunity for vengeance. I turned to my friend that didn’t speak Afrikaans, “you speak Afrikaans” said I “hurl some proper abuse”. He made those deep, throaty sounds that marks Low Dutch as an excellent language for insult.

Stirred by these pleasing noises, the entire English contingent launched into a tirade of abuse directed towards the advancing Saffer.

I awoke to briefly hear some continued underwear exchanges, to the delight of one and to the discomfort to the other.

Sleep once again took me, but this time to the SCG’s men’s toilets. In there, were the firmly planted feet of David Shepherd, the now-deceased umpire. In his unexpectedly broad Scottish accent, he delivered some rather scathing opinions concerning the Umpire Decision Referral System as I made use of the neighbouring urinal.

Imagine my joy, therefore, upon hearing that England were destroying the Australian bowlers. Two centurions and a lead of over 200. Marvellous. Marvellous. It almost makes like worth living during the grim, post-Christmas return to the terrible truth of reality.

Which way will it go? To stay up or to snooze in ignorance?

The main problem of not being unemployed is having work. This means the hours between 11 and six are traditionally reserved for recuperation and rest. As previous experience has proven, sleeping for hours at a time in the staff toilets is frowned upon.

So, the cricketing world once again asks me that familiar question: How recklessly irresponsible are you?

Just as the first test match of the Ashes teeters on the edge of mythology, with the possibility of ludicrous victories either side securing legendary status, my already questionable work-ethic is tested to the limit.

AYALAC has prepared some sure-fire methods to watch the game, whilst preserving the aura of professionalism in the office.

1) New project. Developing an entrepreneurial new product that will add value to your workplace will show that you are dedicated and inventive and generally amazing. Working on this has kept you up all night. What a champion. No one will question the quiet abandonment in few weeks as the Great Plan goes that way of all new ideas: The bin.

2) Emergency plumbing. For those accustomed to the rich vein of fantasy that are the “WFH” emails, working from home is a perfect time to catch up on needed sleep. Escaping to your “work-bunker” will also raise a convenient excuse to your total unresponsiveness to emails or calls.

3) Bravely soldier on. The announcement of disease instantly provides sympathy and distance from your fellow man. The bleary eyes and clumsy decision-making can plausibly be as a result of a massive virus attack. Once the ruse is established, frequent emergency trips to the toilet for micro-sleeps may get you through the day, as well as winning more credit.

4) Form a sleep co-operative. The key to skiving off work is thorough and meticulous planning. Identify all those sympathetic to your course in advance to the match. Prior to the night-long vigil, book an all-day mega-meeting with cricketing colleagues. Take your bedding into the meeting room first thing in the morning, lock yourselves in and sleep like demons.

5) Coming clean. Remind your boss of his or her obvious insignificance to cricket, laugh at their thoughtlessness at scheduling work during an Ashes series and slap yourselves on the back before heading homeward to bed. The long-term advantage of this strategy is its possibility of relieving you of any further work-related inconveniences in the future.

AYALAC is personally considering a combination of numbers (1) and (3). Infected dedication should throw them off the scent long enough.

If you could stay awake, will you be able to stay awake?

So. The Ashes are here. Not a great surprise. Given that there are three other, probably more interesting series going on. Nevertheless, myopic parochialism has never stopped the British press before and there’s no point going back on it now.

The question is: how will you stay awake?

The BBC has a very useful guide. The most educational suggestion was in relation to strategic coffee taking. The idea behind this is that the you can stay away by taking frequent naps throughout the course of the evening. But, ensure that these are only 15-20 minutes in length.

As all siesta-takers will know: short is good.

The interesting trick is, however, to take coffee just before napping. Apparently, it comes into effect just about the time you are waking up, and therefore it stimulates you to once again to an attentive state.

I write this at 10:15. I am already thinking about bed.

Here’s to us not cocking up the toss.

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.