Name That Bum #9

Same rules as always, you have to identify the international cricketer in the shots below. Please give you answers in the comments.

Winners will have a poem written in their honour.

Hopefully, this'll be a hard one. Although, given certain readers' genius for bum identification, I never can tell.

Good luck, and good bumming.

Clue One

Clue Two

Clue Three

Can you....NAME THAT BUM?

Australians moving to England

The tour details of Australia’s tour to England in 2009 have been announced. They arrive in May and depart in late September.

That’s four months. They’re probably going to claim squatters’ rights. Well, I suppose that’s only fair, seeing as that’s how we claimed Australia in the first place.

The administrators, displaying how hip and “wiv it” they are, decided to pack the tour with seven one day internationals. Yes, remember those? Fifty over cricket was what our granddads used to play, before Bollywood took over the sport.

I used to think that five-match ODI series were too long. Then seven became the norm. Then everyone decided to hate fifty-over cricket.

All except for bureaucrats in Australia and England. They think everyone else are bastards, and are going to stick it to ‘em with as many tediously drawn out out-moded competitions as possible.

In fairness, ruling out tyrannical self-indulgence, if I ran these sorts of things I would do it in the same way: aim to piss everyone else just so I can bellow with malevolent amusement.

They’ve also decided to give the Welshies a test match. Also, Hampshirians, a county so non-descript that its residents have no name (except for Southampton folk, who are affectionately known as “scummers” bless ‘em) have been awarded a test match as well.

It’s sad that Trent Bridge doesn’t have a test. I can only assume that this is because their ground is “too good” and not at all in Cardiff.

The tourists play only one four-day match against a county side. Rain will probably reduce this to a two day match. Meaning that Australia’s preparation is pathetically short.

Having said that, the Aussies won’t need much practice before playing against the pathetically short Englanders. But, it’s the thought that counts; at least pretend you take the opposition seriously.

That’s all we ask.

We can take repeated humiliations and spineless slumps. We’re used to it. Just say that you think we’re "not to be underestimated” or something and the English nation will be happy enough.

You can take our dignity. But please don’t take our pride.

Or is it the other way around?

Special report from Antigua

The AYALAC news wires have been buzzing busily this afternoon: I have just received an exclusive report from my Special Antigua Correspondent.

My mum has just returned from a holiday in the Caribbean, and kindly provided me with a cricket report. Well, sort of. Most of the time, her testimony discusses obviously irrelevant details: many non-cricketing references to things like sun and cocktails abound strangely.

Anyway, I was charged with picking up the ol’ alma mater from the airport, on Saturday. Oh, did I say Saturday? I meant Sunday. You didn’t drive all the way to Gatwick at five o’clock in the morning on Saturday as well, did you? Oh, sorry. The ticket said I took off on Saturday, I just assumed that I was going to land on the same day. Besides, waking up at four o’clock in the morning at the weekend is good for you.

I would have been more annoyed. But years of infrequent telephone conversations and general filial neglect have swung moral righteous decisively in a maternal direction. Besides, I’m glad she didn’t arrive on Saturday, when she may have noticed the bloke who was waiting to give flowers to his inward bound mother.

Those people should be ostracised.

Anyway, pointlessly waiting in Gatwick’s South terminal was a small price to pay for the gold-mine of exclusive cricketing information I can provide to you today.

As you can see from this image hurriedly taken from a speeding taxi, the Stanford Ground really does exist. My reporter described this shocking development as looking “really posh”.

See? It's real. We weren't being lied to.

In a further unexpected turn, it was revelled that the small Caribbean island was covered in large billboards displaying images of “men wearing white. Does that mean they’re cricketers? Are they famous then?”

At this point, the report becomes hazy. Apparently, my journalist spotted Giorgio Armani three times, and even swapped good mornings when making eye contact. I think young master Armani is an up-and-coming quick who reputedly possesses excellent seaming abilities.

I’m hoping for more incisive details when my Dad returns in six weeks after he’s sailed back from the Caribbean. So good luck to him… wherever he is.

Bloody parents. Smug ones, at that. It's not like I have a compensation: I hear Geoffrey Boycott's mum averages over 43 in first class cricket. She's no mug with a stick of rhubarb.

Atherton unpicks seam of Vaughan enigma

I have been vaguely aware of Michael Atherton’s ascent through the journalistic ranks. It hasn’t been full-on, consciousness, just a steady, distant understanding: like the catholic view of the Trinity.

Today he has an interview in The Times.

Now, just to set the scene, my view on interviews in papers is strong: especially when the hack attempts to set the scene. These pieces usually begin with the word “As” and then brutally followed by a “I walked into the strangely dark café…” Thereupon you are treated to ten full paragraphs of this failed novelist’s desperate musings as he gropes for some literary merit in an apparently cruel world where useless journos are excluded from excreting their clichéd, half-thought out piffle onto hard-back.

Sadly, this just system does not extend its regime into the world of newspapers. Any over-optimistically coined phrase is acceptable so long as it meets the deadline.

So, it was in this context that I met Atherton’s recent interview with some reservation.

These qualms were hastily confirmed when he began with:

“Nonna’s is a clean, well-lighted place on Sheffield’s…”

Oh no. Athers broke my rule. I only had one, you bastard, and you bloody broke it. Not only that, but references to Earnest Hemmingway in cricket pieces are a bit too university – don’t you think?

I would normally, at this point, throw my head back in disgust, yodel angrily and assail the random passenger to my right.

However, seeing as Athers, like an aortic tumour, has a soft spot in my heart, I gave him a second chance and continued reading.

Although he waits another four paragraphs before he reaches the point of the piece, he spends his acres of room wisely: he insinuates some insider property trading by the England captain and gratuitously insults Yorkshire folk as “pathetically self-absorbed”.

The Times needs to produce more of these cheap shots; I approve of them greatly.

Troublingly, the piece repeatedly points out its origins in Sheffield. Yet, the previous page has Michael Vaughan in Leeds. Surely, Schrödinger couldn’t have accidentally placed Michael Vaughan in his box? More likely: it took the recipient of a first class degree from Cambridge about a fortnight to toss off this piece.

Probably too busy down the pub. Or the bookies.

The actual interview part is rather plastic, so I would avoid reading the middle bits, if I were you. Just skim along to the final sentence, nay paragraph.

“Summer has arrived, and England’s captain bounces out into the sunlight in optimistic mood.”

I recommend re-reading that sentence. There is a lot of depth to it. It is a sentence laden with sunny metaphors. We asked by the author to imagine the England captain as if he were a beach ball, leaping into the salty air above a crowded beach in July. The sun beamishly leers the bouncing objects with warmth and approval. All is well.

It is a celebration of the ever-sizzling English weather. A climate which never disappoints us with constant, numbing drizzle or tamely knocking a catch to second slip after an attractive thirty.

So, Atherton’s not quite a heavy handed hack yet, but he’s getting there. We, in AYALAC, shall scrutinise his blossoming career with great attention.

Indian premier yawn

I’ll try not to be too smug, but isn’t the IPL boring?

Does anyone care any more? What’s more interesting: the IPL or the English county championship?

An obvious trick question. However, if you are a) a cricket blogger; b) not well disposed to twenty20; c) obsessed with international test cricket; d) me, then you were always going to struggle for consciousness whilst watching this marketing spectacle

A great many people who satisfy none of the above criteria but are still reaching for their remote controls and hitting the “Big Brother” button. Or a film. Whatever floats your boat. Personally, I’m a news 24 man. Except when there’s no news. Then news 24 is pretty much the least informative thing outside of a White House press conference.

With 59 games scheduled in total, you don’t have to be Malcolm Speed to work out why interest is waning. Indeed, television audiences have been dropping steadily as the novelty of this event begins to fade.

I’ll chuck in my usual self-congratulatory anti-twenty20 rantings here: perhaps people are recognising the shallowness, the artificiality and the limited possibilities that twenty20 offers as compared to even a 50 over match.

The subtle nuances, the competition of bat versus ball and the developing strategies are all removed from this format of the game. Once you watch a bloke smack a ball 70 yards you have exhausted the game’s entertainment possibilities. It’s just more of the same.

I’d like to think that viewers are assessing these weaknesses and are deliberately boycotting an impoverished version of the game. However, the fact is that they’re just getting bored by it. No one really cares about the teams, the play is predictable and the results unrelated to skill. They’d rather watch reality television.

Heck, I'd rather watch reality television.

People make a big deal of twenty20’s potential to pull in cricket-haters into the fold. But, judging by this league, twenty20 might result in putting people off from the game.

Take that establishment!

One player maybe banned, others not so banned

A confusing day of ban, counter-ban and lifted bans.

Apparently, Andrew Hall, Justin Kemp and Johan van der Wath were all banned from participation in official ECB events (like that cocktail party at Lord’s at the end of the season) because they were involved in the Indian Cricket League.

The ICL is pretty much the cricketing equivalent of the chubby girl at school. Anyone caught canoodling with her risks a lifetime of ostracisation and ridicule.

However, we are informed that today, of all days, this ban has been lifted and the Saffers can re-integrate into the county champagne set and get down to some serious yaughting at last.

Frustratingly, neither the cricinfo piece nor the bbc article informs us as to who lifted this ban. It could have been some sort of court, or perhaps alternative dispute arbitration conducted by a geezer in the street. I’m guessing it must be, because I can quote from his judgement:

“Yeah. It’s like this, yeah? It’s like, this man, yeah? And he has this, like, thing, you know? He’s got this thing and he should ‘ave it? AVE IT! Yeah?”

In other news, another, more official court ruled decisively to procrastinate over the future of Shoaib “I realise that I’m in the wrong now that you’re about to ruin me” Akhtar.

Shoaib was originally sentenced to serve a five-year ban for being a bit of a tit, which many hoped would stand as an influential precedent wordwide. Sadly, this ruling has yet to be extended to the people who inflict themselves upon my life.

Some judgy bloke from Pakistan ruled that Shoaib’s ban should sort of remain, but sort of not,, oh, I don’t know, he judged, let’s deal with it later: say June?

And so the wonderful limbo of law descended upon Shoaib’s life. Sure, you can play cricket. So long as it’s outside Pakistan and probably not in India.

I think you will all agree that this is an elegant and neat way of solving the problem. Put it off until tomorrow. Lawyers at their best.

Name That Bum #8: Answer

The answer to yesterday's Name That Bum was, of course Inzamam-ul-Haq.

Congratulations to "T" who was the first to correctly guess the answer.

Seeing as he has already won this noble competetion, I have decided that, in stead of the usual poem, to brand this rather enigmatic character, so that we may easily identify him in the future. So, here is T's logo AND slogan for future reference:

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

Giles Clarke backs AYALAC all the way

It has been ages since I put “AYALAC” in a headline and filled an article by talking about myself, so let’s correct that wrong.

Giles Clarke, King of English Cricket, read my recent angry and sweary rant against the possibility of an English Premier League, Allen Stanford and everything that that bloody Texan stood for.

Giles consider my weighty words and realised the inevitable logic of my constructive criticism. Agreeing with my assessment that he was a “money gabbing traitor” and was a “total bastard”, he called a halt to all this twenty20 franchise business.

In an interview with Boris Johnson, he stated:

“AYALAC is right. Franchise sport has simply never worked in the UK,"

He went on to add,

“I still may be somewhat of a bastard, however.”

He qualified this last remark by alluding to the continuing negotiations with Sir Allen,

“I hope to give more details in the days and weeks ahead but I can guarantee that everyone in the game - from playground to Test arena - will benefit from this deal."

I really don’t like the sound of that. Ominous, isn’t it? So, we can assume that this “deal” rules out franchises, but not the selling off of English cricket and facilities to some yank.

Watch this space to see if Clarke’s innate bastardliness dissipates further.

Name That Bum #8

Same rules as always, you have to identify the international cricketer in the shots below. 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?

AYALAC pledges its undying loyalty to the people of China

Today, we’re all snazzed up. AYALAC has acquired the use of a proper, grown up domain name. AYALAC is now registered in China.

You can access this site through the normal way, or through using the snazzy new domain name:

http://www.ayalac.cn/

If you feeling either parochial, or international, depending on your perspective, you can also get in via:

http://www.ayalac.co.uk/

In other technological news of whiz-bangery, I have re-uploaded the viddy-blog number 10, with much improved video and sound quality.

Apologies to my youtube subscribers for messing you all about with that, but this really is better. Actually, I'm not sure that it is. But, right here, right now, I'm caring less and less.

What can’t Stanford bugger off and save snooker or something?

Snooker is similar to cricket. It is considered, by those outside the game, a boring and pointless activity. To this sentiment, I generally concur.

Clearly, snooker needs a helping hand.

That is why the new Tell All Texans To Bugger Off And Start Messing About With Snooker starts here.

There’s an obsequious turd of a piece by Simon Wilde in today’s Sunday Times heralding Allen “Sir” Stanford's immanent messianic saving of English cricket.

In the words of a fine and ineffective ex-Prime Minister: “crisis, what crisis?” Forgive me if I’m fucking stupid in the brain, but hasn’t cricket been ticking over quite nicely without the interference of a moneyed yank who finds test cricket “boring”?

Oh wait. I idealistically forgot about cash. That’s the most important thing in cricket, right? I mean, that’s what it’s all about: making some former investment banker who used to keep wicket for Harrow Second XI as a light distraction from his bullying by the older boys and sexual harassment by the teachers, who now fancies a spot of cricket administration when he isn’t crunching on our hard-earned credit like a hungry, hungry hippo through adventerous German tourists.

But, the bankers say, if we set up a super-rich twenty20 competition, then Kevin Pietersen won’t leave us. And if he leaves us, we won’t have that stylised tart poncing about over the celebrity magazines, too concerned with highlighting and brain pedicures to mess about with getting runs for England. Heaven forefend the possibility of allowing in an English player who actually wants to play and try hard for his country.

I MEAN HEAVEN FOREFEND!

The future of the English Premier League is still under debate. We don’t know whether we’re going to get a two division system, or some artificial “regional” structure. Frankly, I don’t care. These discussions are rather like mulling over the fate of the battle’s survivors: should we bayonet them or squish them in a juice press?

Bastards. The lot of them. Why does cricket have to endure this whilst snooker is unmolested? What did we do to deserve this? Is it because we don’t wear snazzy waistcoats?

Harbhajan “Happy Slap” Singh

The captain of Mumbai Indians (as opposed to the Mumbai Clangers) has allegedly slapped Sri Sreesanth across the chops in a game against Kings XI Punjab.

In post-match interviews, Harbhajan has been a bit cagey about this. He hasn’t exactly denied the brutal attack, but he suggested something had happened but it not a “big issue”.

The fall-out has been cataclysmic. I quote the following from the BBC website:

“TV pictures showed Santh crying at the end of the game, which his side won.”

Indeed they do. Take a look for yourself.

I think you’ll agree that this is a priceless piece of video footage. This is an important addition to cricketing records.

Harbhajan has never been well-liked in AYALAC. But this moment of wisdom has recovered some of his lost esteem.

Every time Sreesanth graces my screen my sub-conscious, my consciousness, my Id and my knees all scream out: “He needs a slap.”

And today, their wish was delivered. Perhaps I should re-think my theological position?

Speed Away

Early morning drives around the M25 are surprisingly fast, and for that reason all the more pleasurable.

The sun is shining, the cows strut proudly across the lush fields and all the grotty ABSO children gravitate into the Vortex of large shopping centres leaving me free to enjoy the breaking Spring unbottled.

Not just me, though. I have a new companion. He used to work. He used to be a busy man. He used to be the, oh god I hate even typing this, the Chief Executive Officer of the IC-bloody-C

Now he’s not.

A man of energy and self-belief, who once charged across the world arguing for his ideas on cricket. Of course, those ideas were fundamentally corrupt, but the man was decent and his management was generally competent.

But it would be naïve to suppose that these alone were sufficient qualities to ensure survival in a complex, multi-national organisation. Speed was undone by the politics.

I received a lot of stick from Indians when I criticised the IPL. They felt slighted. It seemed as though I was attacking India. If not Indian directly, I was offending their property, which somehow becomes the same thing.

Although facts are short at the moment, we can detect a similar dynamic in the ICC. Speed seems to be ousted because of a severe rift between himself and senior South Africans on the Board and Executive Committee.

We are, I suppose, all products of our countries, and to an extent, we reflect the received wisdom of cultures when looking abroad. Malcolm Speed, an Australian (a country prominent in the condemnation of Robert Mugabe’s regime) has been hawkish when dealing with Zimbabwe.

Indeed, after a forensic audit carried out by KPMG uncovered wide-spread financial mismanagement and evidence of money laundering, Speed condemned the Zimbabwean cricket board, in a leaked memo, stating that they had "deliberately falsified" their accounts.

The ICC decided to sweep this negative audit opinion under the carpet, against the protests of Speed. Whereas Ray Mali, the ICC president and a South Africa, has called for a more softly-softly approach, eerily reflecting his own country’s foreign policy.

Of course, there were other conflicts with the BCCI and what not, but it was the total deterioration between the CEO and president that hastened Speed’s departure.

It is sad, if understandable, that the important committees and managements are divided by shoddy and irreverent geopolitical positions outside the world of cricket. But its susceptibility to this sort of unknowing malleability it’s indicative of the ICC’s weakness as an institution which is not capable of standing up for itself, let alone representing cricket.

Perhaps it would be a little nationalistic of me to suggest a return to the MCC days…

English cricket for sale

My new best friend, Giles Clarke, is considering selling off English cricket to some bloke, for a lot of money.

I previously thought that the tender only covered a single, one-off match. That alone made me annoyed. Not as irritated as I was this morning, whilst trying to negotiate the exit of Fenchurch Street Station whilst fending off the jingoistic advancements of some freebie newspaper distributors encouraging me to honour St. George’s Day.

“No,” I thought. “Go away.”

Needless to say, they didn’t. St George’s day? What on Earth will they think of next? Let’s All Beat Up The French Day?

Anyway, this state or anger was topped today when I discovered that Allen “Call Me Sir” Stanford is planning to bank-roll an expanded English twenty20 competition to rival the IPL. Why we would want to do such a thing is unclear, but Stanford is only prepared to organise such a useless tournament if he receives assurances from the ECB that they’ll guarantee his investment plus returns.

Cheeky bastard.

This produces is a whole new layer of fury. This makes me angrier than that woman who clips her nails on the train. And I want to kill her. I want to kill her with a cheap rubber spatula such is my accrued wrath.

In a vague, feeble justification, Stanford says that England need to be at the heart of any future evolution of cricket. And hilariously adds,

“The organisation here is better, the management is better, the structure is better.”

Clearly, the Texan billionaire didn’t attempt to catch a Northbound Circle line from Tower Hill this morning, and then worked out, without any official communication, that the Circle Line was delayed, requiring him to walk to Aldgate Station to wait a further twenty minutes during the rush hour for an over-crowded train on another buggered line, resulting him in being late for work. Again. Thoughts of managerial efficiency do not spring to one’s mind in such circumstances.

In any case, the whole thing is shocking and awful and terrible and a betrayal. These people need to be sent to the same place as nail-clipper girl.

Sehwag Smash!

Once again, AYALAC inspires great feats of near super-human achievements.

After watching my latest viddy-blog, Virender Sehwag was overheard to have said,

“The video quality is a bit shaky, but by crickey, that has inspired me!”

He went on to biff an unbeaten 94 from 41 balls. This is not normally the sort of cricket I approve of; I prefer it when those figures are reversed. Better still if they are reversed, debited, credited and multiplied by the residual value,

Now there’s some spanking cricket.

But, for Sehwag, I make exceptions. You can mercilessly biff anyone like, Viru, even England (but not Somerset). And he accepted my offer, and used the opportunity to single-handedly win the match.

There seems to be a developing pattern to these IPL games. Each match has had some bloke go mental. The side with the mental bloke wins, it seems. Rather like rolling the dice, you might think… I know the truth.

By the way, you may, or may not have heard that the IPL, in a bid to extend public affection for them further, has banned the publishing of images taken at the matches onto the internet.

This is where AYALAC comes into its own. Not only do I paint you an original artwork straight from my creative consciousness to your puny, underpowered computer, but this is the only source on the internet where you can see, nay feel, the unfolding action of the IPL.

You are certainly lucky. Luckier than most. The rest don’t have AYALAC, and oh how they suffer.

Video 10: Incredible Sehwag, The

My rather late honouring of Virender Sehwag's recent achievements.

YouTube really butchered the sound quality of this one. I tried to upload a uncompressed version, but all was in vain. So, sorry for that. You are welcome to come to my house and watch the original.

Also, for those of you in the third world (France) I have uploaded this film to my Daily Motion page. (I'll try to upload the rest when I have time, too.)

[EDIT - NEW HIGH-QUALITY UPLOAD.]

Name That Bum: #7 Answer

The answer to yesterday's Name That Bum was, of course, Geraint Jones. The forgotten saviour.

Congratulations to Tom G, who provided the first correct answer.


So Tom G reigned victorious,
I wonder what the “G” stands for,
It could be Gertrude, Gary or Gore
Whatever his name,
It’s all the same,
His knowledge of bums is notorious,

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

Name That Bum #7

Same rules as always, you have to identify the international cricketer in the shots below. Please give you answers in the comments.

Winners will have a poem written in their honour.

Today's bum has been nominated by Catherine. Know her mind and you shall have the answer.

Good luck, and good bumming.

Clue One

Clue Two

Clue Three

Can you...NAME THAT BUM?

The ECB sinks to new low

Last week the ECB sunk to new depths in my esteem with two pieces of news.

Firstly, they banned that iconic link to the past: the cable-knit jumper. Of course, the ECB is not unafraid of shedding its heritage; cricket has lost what little remains of its uniqueness in a market saturated with the finest American plastics and wheezes of twelve year-olds in suits.

Replacing time-worn, proven elements of the game with the ephemeral fads of blind modernisation is all part of the new feckless strategy of a pro-active, globalised, empowered, service-oriented, ahead of the curve, excellence-focused English administration.

This may, or may not, be something to do with the new chairman: Giles Clarke, who is, by all accounts, a total bastard. Apparently, he can speak about twenty languages, is an enormously successful businessman and is obsessed with cricket statistics. So we can safely assume he knows nothing about cricket.

Look at England’s replacement kit. What really irritates me about this is the whiteness of the whites. Whites are cream; even demented, colour blind mole people know that. Clarke the twat, however, does not. Now our team look like a bunch of unemployable youths, loitering outside the local off licence debating whether they should re-attempt a cider-shoplifting expedition or try to score some scag from their mum.

The ultimate denunciation of this chav-wear came from Kevin Pietersen:

“It feels sensational.”

Secondly, Clarke’s depravity knows no end with his official announcement that the England cricket, after over a hundred years of honourable if modest achievement, is now for sale.

The ECB is currently in talks with “Sir” Allen Stanford over the possibility of England playing a collection of hired goons for a prize $200 million.

Apparently, the justification of this scandelous misuse of a noble instution is to compensate the impoverished players from their unrealised IPL earnings.

I have accepted long ago that the ECB is no longer interested in cricket, but this greedy nadir is simply too much for me to endure. I might just burn down Lords, with all their chequebooks, media contact indices and hip, unstuffy outfits left inside.

Why is usesless Boris Johnson messing around over the London mayoral position – we need a inactive, hopeless head of the ECB and we need one now.

IPL starts: Hoo-fucking-ray

Well, I suppose I should something about the inaugural IPL match.

Not that I want to.

As you no doubt already know, Brendan McCullum broke the twenty20 world record, providing the crowd of thousands of rabid football fans with what has become known as “entertainment”. He scored 158 not out, from bugger all balls.

After that innings, the Bastradly Bangalore Badgers melted away like the Wicked Witch of the West, giving the Kolkata Squires an easy victory in an ultimately predictable and drab match.

In fairness, the IPL is breaking down my protective wall of curmudgeonliness, McCullum’s innings was awesome. “Whack! Wollop! Wazzam!” went his innings.

“Oh! Whoops! No!” went the bowlers.

What strikes me, more than anything, about this tournament is the weirdness of the players’ juxtaposition. There, before me on the telly, is Ricky Ponting hugging Sourav Ganguly. Australians, Kiwis and Indians alike are frolicking gayly in front of my disbelieving eyes.

To capture any similar sites in the future, it might be worth watching a few more games.