Post Stanford chit-chat

This is my last week at work. I am working on a client’s site unsupervised, alone and bitter. Oh, the client is going to hear an earful. Oh yes. They’re going to find out exactly what they get for our over-inflated fee, let me tell you.

So, while I’m away doing that, I decided to dust down the ol’ Predictron, and ask it to tunnel into the future. The location: England’s dressing room. The time: after the Stanford Parade.

“Hey Owais, what kind of oil do you use on your bat?”

“Well, I’m glad you asked me that, Jimmy,” responded the Middlesexian batsman, as he removed a small peppering of powder from the pin-striped lapel of his bespoke Fawns and Newham suit. “My weapon needs hours of greasing and rubbing down before you can get it to really start gushing with runs.”

“Yeah, I had a problem with the runs once” said a hairy, Northern creature. But nobody heard. As usual, he was only wearing his underpants.

A low hum began to fill the room.
“Sounds like GOD has arrived,” said Iain the Bell. He set down his Lucian Freud exersketch for 12-16 year olds. “Should we prepare the auguries?”

The seriousness of his tone settled the high-spirited group.

“Yes,” replied young Stewie “we must please him well.”

“There he is! OH! Doesn’t he look marvellous!” a young Peter Moores suggested excitably over his snack of blinis and Golden Panda shavings.
“Arriving on a Porsche–drawn carriage!” a chirped Luke Wright, “how classy.”

Indeed, the Dirty Saffer was a site to behold. Muscle-bound and stripped to the waist, standing astride a shimmering Lapis lazuli chariot, The Mighty One was propelled by four firey soft-top Porches, as topless and resplendent as the four super-models that drove them.

“Oh bugger!” exclaimed Andrew Flintoff “That reminds me I forgot to buy the new Veyron.”
“Isn’t there, like, a ten year waiting list for that?” asked some fool. It doesn’t matter who. The only important issue is that the question was asked. It was a narrative device. It adds to the drama and progresses the story. Come on, get involved.

“Well, you know how it is” shrugged the beefy all-rounder, made all the more huge by his recent acquisition of Trellis and Son - “Fine Pies for all the Family. And More.”
“Yeah.” They all chimed.

Along with the distant concert of sporty engines and whips, a trudgy, dumpy sound could be heard approaching from the stairs. The large Brazillian teak door, inset with detailed rosewood reliefs depicting historic scenes of English success, lurched open as a tired Monty Panesar stomped into the room.

“Hey Monty,” spoke Pratty Mire, “how did you get here? Catch a bus?”
All: “AAH HA HA HA”
“No, actually,” stumbled Monty. “I caught a lift from my dad. He has the new Vauxhall Insignia.”
All: “AAH HA HA HA HA”

“Hey, chaps, I forgot to tell you,” said that spinner no one has heard of from Notts “I recently bought this Swannery in Dorset or somewhere. It’s well nice. I get all my quills sourced from there now.”

“Not a bad investment in these times,” saged Paul Collingwood, “I find that my avian assets are consistently the highest performers in my portfolio.”

“Yes," said Samit or Other. "And I reserved a lovely spot for The Dropper.”

All: “AAH HA HA HA HA”

Angus Fraser makes dangerous statement

Generally, I don’t like to get involved in county politics. It’s boring. I prefer to focus on the actual cricketers – and their filthy private lives.

But, if you must know, there are rumours that Angus Fraser will take over as “Managing Director” of Middlesex.

The only reason that this is news is because a) people have heard of Angus Fraser and b) Graeme Smith is in hospital awaiting a mouth transplant.

I love Fraser. He, along with Andy Caddick and possibly Phillip J Tuffers were among my favourite players of England’s 1990s Golden Era.

Fraser’s main tactic was to spend half an hour running in and by the time he got to the crease he was visibly exhausted. When Brian Lara dispatched him to the boundary, Gussy would kick at the ground and blame the captain for asking him to bowl an unreasonable number of overs. Just look at how knackered I am you heartless bastard. He would say that. Only, without quotations marks.

Then the captain was changed. Hopefully to one who would put our Angus in at slip.

On the speculation regarding this county position, Fraser has said:

"I'm keen to chat with them and find out what they [Middlesexian big-wigs] have to say because it's still a place close to my heart. I currently have a very good job with the Independent newspaper but…”

And this next bit requires a severe buttock-clenching bracing position.

“….there is no harm in listening to what people have to say.”

Oh Gussy. Gussy. Gussy. Gussy.

Angus. Angus Robert Charles Fraser. Angus. You may need to know all there is about doggedly plugging away off or around the women’s changing room, but your understanding of human behaviour is somewhat lacking.

Personally, I feel that this dangerous and frankly inflammatory statement should preclude him from any position of authority. Obviously, he’s fine in his current role as a journalist. But any job where people should actually listen to him should be immediately ruled out.

Perhaps send him back to the ICC?

In my experience, the most harm has come from listening to people. In fact, I have given it up altogether.

Look at Stalin. He spent most of his early days listening to Lenin. And then look what happened.

It’s the same storey with Gordon Brown.

Do you want to end up like that, Gussy? Do you? Do you?

Well then.

Here’s to unemployment!

Ryan Hairybottom. Matthew Hoggard. Andrew Symonds. And now me.

We greats. Us, the noble four. We share a single unifying victorious wondrous characteristic: unemployment.

Cricket Australia has recently revealed that being a jobless bum is now the best profession in the world.

We outcasts know that we’re best placed. We have no “responsibilities” or “futures”. We lone wolves are independent. We don’t need friends. We have self-pity for companions.

I’ve been taking hints from my dole mate, Ryan – known to your disreputes as “God”. He tells me the best way he real with rejection is to find a quiet bridge, hide underneath it, and cry until you pass out.

It’s worked wonders for me.

I don’t have a job. But at least I don’t play for Nottinghamshire. The seat of evil. So I think I have one-up on him there.

Anyway, Siders also advices hanging around fish and chip shops. Apparently their bins are like gold mines.

But the coming credit crunch has showed that many fine, talented, occasionally gorgeous people, have been thrown out to the seagulls.

These rejects need to be looked after somewhere. Usually, the English county circuit is the perfect home for expended refuse, but I feel the need for a new institution. Somewhere to home the nearly man, somewhere to sooth their disturbed pride, somewhere where they can feel like cricketers again.

Personally, I think Southend Pier is the best place for them. It can be a little concentration camp for castoffs.

Wales + cricket = The Rubbish

The last game in the one day series between Empirer and Empieree drizzled out to an abandoned draw.

Many of us would recall the abandoned draw as a familiar result to family holidays in Wales. You were stuffed into a clinging anorak, prodded up soggy mountains, dragged through depressing marshes and forced to commune with Welshies. The Rubbish was everywhere present.

Of course, the fellahs in the ECB ignored the hard-fought experiences of youth, and have repeatedly played matches in Wales. WHAT ARE THEY THINKING?

Can you remember a single holiday to Pembrokeshire or Gwyndathshire every classified as “won”?

Why don’t England play in the South of France or perhaps in the Italian hills? Those were all “won” holidays. You could bring some nice wine into the, err, ground. You could wax lyrical about the local cheese. Such grounds even offer chances to laugh at the silly locals’ English. Moreso than in Wales.

In stead, the ECB offers Welshy sog airy, pies and lager as watered down as the weather.

In other news, that Australia is messing everything up with his daft theories. This isn’t the first time it has happened.

But, I’m debating whether to go to see the potentially interesting Somerset vs. Notts match in Trent Bridge this Saturday. Only problem is, the train ticket is £50. And I’m not guaranteed any play or a West Country win.

Should I go?

Somerset: they haven’t won yet

Some of you are wondering about Somerset. “Why haven’t they won yet” I hear you say, “they’re well ace.”

I know, I know. We are all concerned. But we all know what a total bastard reality can be. That a place famed for its scabby minors and gun crime can beat a perfect, rural idyll at anything is indicative of the essential rubbish of things.

But that is the situation that the First Division of the Whatever County Championship. Nottinghamshire are currently cheating the most, and are leading the tables. Somerset are cheating less, and so are only second.

But what’s second place?

It’s like announcing to your office that you’d like to have a baby, and only finding a fresh donation of semen on your desk the next day.

Sure, the fellahs’ hearts are in the right place, and it’s a thoughtful gesture, but they have failed to realise the result you wanted.

Justin Langer promised so much after his triple hundred and smashing of the Second Division. And, despite some cruel draws, he has generally produced the goods.

But we expect more. It is not enough simply to “like” cider and occasionally go shopping for shoes in Street. No. Victory. Victory is all. Victory or deportation. Deportation back to Australia.

Now there’s incentive for any man.

There’s not long left to see whether Lango can inseminate a new era of West Country success, or just produce a small mess which eventually crusts away.

KP's magic man milk

After I revealed KP's secret to success yesterday.

The Englanders leaked documents substantiating my libellous claims.

This was quoted from KP:

"YES MY PRETTIES! YES! DRINK! DRINK MY LIFE-GIVING MAN MILK SO THAT YOU MAY COME STRONG. STRONG LIKE YOUR WARM, LOVING MOTHER"

KP’s brews up a treat again

Very rarely does an England sporting team dispatch strong opposition. Sure, we can crush Turkey at Polo and thrash Poland at Turkey Gobbling, but very rarely do we beat a number two side in the world, let alone repeatedly blown them away like farts on a summer breeze.

But that’s what England did today by smashing South Africa for the fourth time on the trot.

There were times when the Saffers looked strong. They started very quickly, 69-0 from bugger all overs. Although, this promising start petered out into a relatively disappointing 183. Similarly, whilst in the field, they had England in trouble at a wicket down, a quarter of their overs passed, with still over a hundred to go.

Then Jacques Kallis decided to bowl himself. One moment of short-of a length madness, and England had advanced their score by twenty, downgrading their official status from “Panic! Panic!” to “Hang on a minute…”. When Andrew Flintoff eventually took the field, Defcon stood at “Take that you Saffer Pansies!”

So what exactly has KP done to the England cricket team. Obviously, they’ve been suckling at his fantastical, victory-enhancing teets. But Michael Vaughan tried that, and his man-milk only seemed to last 2005 before it became crusty and incapable of giving life.

Some people think that he has made players feel valued. Loved. Wanted. Whereas before, I suppose, they were abused regularly. Here’s a leaked training session under Vaughan’s regime:

“You bunch of useless wankers. I don’t know which one of you is most useless. Is it you Harmless, you pathetic heap of gangly sinews?”
“Yes sir.”
“What about you, Owais? Oh way to be crap more like”
“Yes sir. I am exceedingly crap.”
“Good. It is through pain and suffering that you learn to lose matches. And it is only when you lose repeatedly and feebly that you understand the true meaning of success.”
“Yes sir,” says all.

Compare this to the recently leaked transcript from KP’s “Friends’ Camp”:

COME MY BEAUTIES. SUCKLE. SUCKLE STRONG SO THAT YOU MIGHT BECOME MORE LIKE ME

More acual reporting: Colchester blues

I went to Colchester this weekend. A surprisingly nice place. It has a “Dutch Quarter”. Although, this isn’t as interesting as it sounds. But full of charming cottages nevertheless. So if you fancy a weekend of Dutch cottaging, then Colchester is your place.

The first thing you do when you go to watch a game in Colchester is realise that it’s not Chelmsford. Actually, it’s quite important that, when you set out on your car, you don’t just assume that they’re playing in Essex’s quite good county ground, but in a middle-of-nowhere backwater that you’ve never been to.

Obviously, the ground wasn’t sign posted. But, fortunately, Banana World was, so we had plenty of cultural alternatives.

So, we drove around Colchester a bit. Decided it wasn’t terrible. Eventually, I too a picture of a plastic map provided by the Council mounted on to the side of the road to help guide our meandering navigation.

The red dot signifies our position. The green at the top shows where we should have been. Interesting that.

So, for the perfectly reasonable price of £15 we entered the ground that offered the same views as we would have had had we stayed from the safety of our car.

At least in the car, I wouldn’t have got slightly sun-burnt when the eight minutes of mild sunshine bore into my pasty skin.

The great thing about small grounds is the opportunity it affords for mid-interval pitch gawping.

I wandered out with the rest of the bearded pot-bellies that populate county grounds and CAMRA festivals alike and pontificated knowledgeable on the pitch.

“Bit dry” someone said. “No bounce” another divined.

We then took up position at the umpire’s post, to stare thoughtlessly into the abyss.

When the action resumed, Essex’s strong position was ebbed away. Which was surprising, given that their attack was led by Grant Flower.

Then Graeme Hick came on. Everyone loves Graeme Hick. He’s old and tries to hit the ball far. He nearly lost his wicket on the long-leg boundary on his first ball.

Look at Graeme Hick. Look at Graeme Hick in all his majesty.

England follow the path of foreignness

By winning. England are winning. They actually played a game of cricket and won it. By winning.

I’m not sure how I feel about this. Usually, I have some pretty strong feelings on this issue. But, today, I feel confused.

England is led by a Saffer. We have foreign keepers. We have foreign players. There is a pretty strong correlation between their foreignness and their success. Which is a surprisingly deep reflection of the British economy in the post-war period.

But, I don’t really care about losing. An international sport is essentially a tribal activity. We jeer at those over there; and celebrate those over here. Regardless how amazing They are and how totally rubbish We are, we fill the room with hate and love in equal measure.

I enjoy the ownership I feel over the team. The irrational companionship I feel with those holding similar accents when we watch a group of other similarly accented people go and try to do something.

Look at the Scottish football team. Their supporters pride themselves on a fanatic, ceaseless following of a relentlessly awful team. It’s almost stubborn. Would they trade this for the relative success an all-Britain football team could offer? Would they buggery.

So, it’s with England’s crushing, impressive yet strangely unstirring win over South Africa rather confuses me.

Notwithstanding the Saffers’ obvious fatigue after a committed test series effort, the Englanders performance was hearty.

But it was inspired by some geezer who wears ear-rings and is generally regarded by those who don’t know him best, as a twat. He is does not sound like me.

So, was this my England winning?

I don’t know.

I know I might feel happier if Twickenham won the World Cup. But would I feel so elated if we drafted in a load of three armed mega-aliens to do the job?

Yeah. Probably. That would wipe the smile of those evil Teddington folk.

Bastards.

Wisden about town

I have been recently informed that The Wisden Cricketer has published another piece of mine. This was the first I'd heard of it, so acquired the latest edition first thing in the morning.


I was feeling generous. So, I offered a temporary work experience position to the magazine. It could shadow for the day, and learn the ropes of being me.


Here we are at the start of the journey. Angry at the morning commute.

The magazine's getting into the swing of things - just look at those eyes.

8 o'clock. On the District Line. And sure enough: there's my piece. I forgot I wrote that. Happy days.

I wonder whose shoe that is?

Towards the end of the journey, I realise there's a large piece on my favourite topic: Matthew Hoggard. Look at the handsome fellah.

It's lunchtime. I decide to take Hoggy with me. We head down the King's Road.

We go to look for sandwiches. The Hoggler spots some nice shoes.

And pants.



After a honest day's work is complete, it's time to rush home.

And reward ourself with a lovely cup of tea.

Cricketers and their train stations

Many people have noticed the stark resemblance between certain members of the England cricket team and stations on the London Underground. At long last, here is a reference for those seeking confirmation of suspected similarities.

Richmond - Alastair Cook
Nearest tube stop to Twickenham. Nearing perfection, but not quite there.

Mansion House – James Anderson
Although it’s in a poncey area, you can’t help but look at this station and think “why does this exist?”

Paddington Station – KP

A bit too flashy at times, especially with its dubious high-level refurbishment, but with its impressive and far-ranging reach it is undoubtedly on of the best stations in the city. Although, it’s foreign connections are a bit suspicious.

High Barnet – Ryan Hairybottom
A bit scruffy around the edges, but generally does the trick. However, it’s a bit too Northern for my liking.

Clapham Common – Andrew Flintoff
With its exotic residents, generous park and fruity nightlife, this deprived gem offers an old round experience to those tempted to slum it. Although, wandering around, you can see why the locals take to so much drink.

Pudding Mill Lane – Monty
Promises more than it serves. Doesn’t deliver you to a great areas and needs to do more to distinguish itself.

Fenchurch Street Station – The Hoggler
An excellent deliverer, with a superb track record. A bit old, a bit boring, but always gets you there in the end. Although, it is irritatingly and inexplicably not connected to the broader London Underground Network.

Gare du Nord – Darren Pattinson
Many commentators have noted how much this station looks like Robocop.

Cricket: It’s still happening (just about)

There have been some various matches going on. Not like a hip hottie on the other side of the bar, more like it’s happening, but not in a very happening way.

Using 1960s slang to describe cricket matches may not be especially germane. But, the world seems to be taking a little step back from cricket for the moment.

Sure, there are soggy games in the sub-continent. A smattering of domestic matches here and there. But between the tests ‘n Lord’s final and the up-and-coming South African one-dayers, there isn’t a great deal to say.

You could mention the rain. The rain in The North. The rain in Scotland. Or the rain for Wednesday’s twenty-bloody-20. You could do all of those things. In stead, though, I will talk about myself.

Besides, is alluding to Northern dampess especially enlightening?

Today was fun. A client come up to me and said, you must be from ____ no one here would wear a shirt like that. A shirt like what exactly? One like this? With a tie? With buttons? WHAT'S WRONG WITH MY SHIRT?

On which note, I’m going to start a new game: guess who sacked me. It has it going on.

The rules run as follows: occasionally, I’ll drop hints about the firm that fired my behind. Using these clues, you have to fire bomb likely offices in London. Whoever guesses right, and hits the right building, will be awarded pretty paintbrush picture, or something.

Name That Bum #14: Answer

Oh whoops! I forgot to award the Name That Bum winner.

The answer to latest conundrum was, of course, Robert Key, hero to millions.

Congratulations to House Monkey, who is awarded a real, actual picture taken of Robert Key by yours truly.

Now. I spent some time, at the Kent match I recently attended, conducting a study of Robert Key’s bum.

The bum, in itself, not particularly interesting. It is much like all the other bums in this world. Yet, it is holds an absorbing, fascinating draw. It’s not its healthy plumpness nor masculine firmness that compels the eye, but its relative proximity to the ground. Much like that of a Basset Hound.

Whether Key simply has stumpy legs, or a weirdly extended torso, seems rather irrelevant. The fact of the matter is that his bum, either through design or accidental downward droop, lowers Key’s centre of gravity.

This might, one supposes, heighten his leverage enabling superior stroke-play. It might simply be a frivolous gift to the crowd to enhance our amusement at the site of his running. The reasons for its vertical unambitiousness are unclear.

But the fact of the matter is that his bum is uncommonly close to the ground.

Actual reporting of the one-day final

OK – moving away from the repository of self-pity that this site seems to have become, I shall do a little homage to the bestest King Cricket post ever – his photo journal of the first day of the season.

So, it’s Saturday. The day of the Friends Are Pointless Trophy, and it’s time for me to get ready to go to Lords. I prepare the sandwiches. One ham; one cheese. Plus an apple. (And a sneaky cupcake that no one knew I took.)

So the journey in was horrendous. There are no pictures. I was too angry for pictures. The Jubilee Line was down. I spent all week travelling to see a client on that bloody line, hating it, and now it twists the knife by failing me one last, bastardly time.

So, I arrive eventually at Lords. In an unreasonably angry mood, given the dry conditions of the day, but I have been determinedly knarked as late. I ask one of the unnecessary stewards how I go about buying a ticket.

He pointed left.

He shouldn’t have pointed left; he should have pointed right.

But he didn’t. He went and pointed left anyway.

After trekking a right old trek, I find a man that seems to live in a booth carved into the perimeter wall.

“Can I have a ticket please? A ticket for the cricket?” I ask.
“Are you a member?” The chappy asks.”
“Do I look like one?”
“Well, you need to buy a ticket from over there somewhere. I don’t really remember where. All I can recall is its extreme distance.”

I get annoyed at this point. I indicate this state to him by real rolling back my eyes, jabbering and frothing at the ears.

“Er,” he offers. “Uh. Here. Have a ticket. It’ll save you the journey.”
“Um,” I begin to stammer myself, but this time, in a non-jabbery way. “What?”
“Here.” He passes a ticket across to me. “This will get you in.”
“Right.” I think the foaming stopped at this point. “Thanks.”

So. In one of the biggest events of Britain’s sporting summer, the authorities are giving away tickets. Literally. They literally gave me a ticket. For nothing. Apparently, it was worth £42. But the ECB decided a more realistic price was £0 (for you Indians, that's about a million rupees) .

This improved my mood substantially.

So. I cheerily picked my way through the crowd, most of whom had paid more than £0 for their tickets, to settle in to my day’s spot. La:

I arrived just as Kent were beginning their suicidal tumble. They had lost both their openers. Seeing that they were the underdogs and that I was British, I instantly formed a bond with them, and decided that they should win. For the good of losers everywhere.

Wickets continued to tumble. Eventually, Geraint Jones came out.

“Oh good,” thinks I. “Last time I saw this goon bat, he scored a century for England. He must be good.”

Here he is walking back to the pavilion 15 minutes later.

Talking of goons, I was surrounded by a lot of them. “Come on Kent!” some of them would shout. This had little effect.

All but one of these dapper chappies got lost at the interval. The remaining bloke, despite his energetic and thirsty start, slept through most of the second innings. Although, I suspect their dress-sense was a few notches above Kent's. I don't know why they all dressed like robots. Perhaps it's a strategy to get into the England outfit?

So. Lunch. As tradition dictates, I enjoyed my little picnic on the nursery ground. I read the Times. I still haven’t fully adjusted to its new lay-out. Why did they turn it into the Observer? Why?

Much of the remaining day was spent searching for tea. Obviously, I didn’t want to wait 40 minutes in a huge queue. So I opted to spend the next few hours seeking the El Dorado of Lords: the quiet tea shop.

And, you know what. I found it. The joy! The joy of tea!

The £1.85 spent on buying this rather over-strong, but no less refreshing cuppa represented the sole expenditure for the day. This fact brings me great pleasure.

More happiness was brought about by this fellow.

The crowd liked him. And so did I.

After a bit, we applauded a Zimbabwean. Previously, we had clapped for a South African, another South African, sworn undying love to an Antiguan and celebrated the highs and lows of various Pakistanis. A great day for English domestic cricket.

AYALAC no feel like blogging today.

I got sacked today. I don't have a job.

No one has named that bum.

Name That Bum #14

Long time no bum.

Today, I put that right. I've got a real hard one for you today, kiddies. So hard, that I could get arrested.

Although, the last ten times I claimed impossibility, the first guesser hit home.

Right, usual rules apply. First one with the answer gets some amazing thing.

Good luck and good bumming.

Clue The One

Clue The Two

Clue The Three

Can you....NAME THAT BUM?

England victory overshadowed by beach volley ball on the telly

As you no doubt have been informed countless times before, it’s hard to be an England cricket fan. This is mostly because the team you follow is useless. Useless, and yet it talks itself up constantly.

It’s rather like the cocky kid at school despite his money-bags father, is still retarded in the brain and many other places.

England’s retardation is mainly focused on the balls. But the comparison is valid.

I have been struggling with the television remote as late. No the batteries aren’t running out (thank god I have been spared that hell) but the finger is hovering quite purposefully over the “Watch a Bit of Olympics Now” button.

I watched a bit of women’s beach volley ball the other day. A hitherto sadly neglected sport in the AYALAC household. But watching bikinied women leap around helplessly on sand has charmed me unrepentantly as late.

Of course, the Chinese won. But, the culture of the “sport” seemed so remarkable. In between each rally, brief opening bars of American pop music would blast the stadium. The play list ranged from the Beach Boys to Gary Glitter. It was a very inclusive event. Even convicted paedophiles were celebrated.

That a fun, playful, ridiculous sport can be identified by the Chinese authorities for a medal is an astonishing indication of China’s peculiar seriousness and single-mindedness in its ambition to win everything.

You know these barely clothed girls have been taken away from their families at the age of two, selected for a life of gruelling beach volley ball training. Spending 18 hours each day beach volleyball. Then learning how to dismantle a T-72 tank for the remainder of the evening.

These guys are going to crush the cricket world. Compare this twisted, indefatigable determination with the English county circuit. It’s like comparing Hungry, Hungry Hippos with Hannibal Lector.

However, what they lack is a sympathetic, if a bit frightened, blogger to help them on their way. HERE I AM.

England look strong, but only they care

Sorry for the long delay in posting, my life has sort of been turned upside down. Not like that of my mate, whose dad he thought was dead for the passed twenty years, popped over for tea one day. Mine's more of a “oh my god, I’ve not got a job” scenario.

Anyway, on to the important things. Kevin Pietersen is still England captain. Oddly enough, the ECB apparatchiks did not see the glaring idiocy of their ways. Now he’s making a total pig’s ear of it by winning a match.

Very un-English.

Hopefully, things seems to be preparing themselves nicely for a feeble collapse on the last day. I can’t wait.

Although he’s still GOD in my eyes, it looks like England have quietly forgotten Ryan Hairybottom. Now that Steve Harmison has decided that he’s no longer a flailing lank-a-tonk, the services of the left-arm seamer are no longer required.

That’s life in England cricket, toast of the table one day, and burnt toast in the bin the next. It’s good that we have departed from the bad old days. The days when players were handed single caps. The day’s where selectors had favourites, and kept picking them, no matter how many long-hops they bowled. We have come so far.

Tim Ambrose looks like he’s for the chop. I don’t really see why. His keeping still seems competent enough, but the fact that he’s no longer playing New Zealand has wrecked havoc with his average.

Who is going to replace him and does it really matter?

AYALAC says: no.

Hoggy for Cappy

England’s knee-jerk efficiency is far too difficult to keep up with these days. They have already appointed their best twat to lead the team in both formats.

KP, the Greg Rusedski of the England team, was shockingly elected ahead of Matthew Hoggard.

Pre-empting Englishers' Sunday apathy, they tried to prevent a national Hoggard For Captain movement, by imposing a foreigner as king. It’s rather like the Glorious Revolution, only with less style.

Although bringing back the ruff for England’s ODI kit wouldn’t be a bad thing. They'd probably look more normal than in their whites.

So, seeing as the ECB are being a pack of right old bastards, I have no qualms in retrospectively re-launching a Hoggard For Captain campaign.

That he cannot get into the side is an irrelevance. Look at Michael Vaughan. He should be brought in as a specialist captain, and perhaps promoted to number three to sure-up the upper order.

So I urge you all, with every ounce of your misdirected energies, with all the distracted motivation that you can muster, to send the following letter to the ECB.

Dear England,

Please can you sack Kevin Pietersen and install Matthew Hoggard to his rightful position as England captain. It is not too late to change your mind. Big men admit when they’re wrong. Look at Darrell Hair.

You wouldn’t want to be like him now, would you?

There are numerous reasons why you should select the Yorkshire Destroyer as captain. He is one of the most capped men in the country. His cricketing head is truly unparalleled. His ability to play a captain's innings has been proven time and time again.

Another advantage is that he’s English. One more might be that he’s not Kevin Pietersen.

Please comply with my wishes. The ECB is funded by the Government through MY tax money (although, for tax reasons, I actually live in Greenland) so it is only my democratic right to issue authoritarian decrees to the national cricket team.

Yours in hope,

NAME (YOURS)

Send that to feedback@ecb.co.uk. Let me know if you get any responses.

News just in: Pietersen has promised to mould the England team in his own image.

God help us all.

Michael Vaughan hits the fan

It’s all kicking off.

Michael Vaughan has resigned from the England test captaincy, and indefinitely stepped down from the squad. In a “me too” mood, Paul Collingwood has quit the ODI job.

In selfless move, in a way, as England probably would have guaranteed his place until Christmas, but a tacit acknowledgement that England need to think about re-building the side for the Ashes. It is unlikely that Vaughan will ever field for England again.

It also keeps England pathetic lose against the South Africans off the back pages. Handy, that.

But, given Collingwood’s oddly timed departure, you might suspect that the management are clearing a path for the Big KP. Who currently stands as the only man who can get into both teams. Perhaps Peter Moores is beginning to throw his weight around?

Although I doubt it. He’s dead fit. Hardly any weight on that string bean.

So, it’s an end to the Michael Vaughan era. Statistically, one of the most successful patches in England’s history. But you would never have guessed it if you were listen to the bloggers. Miserable moaners that complain about nothing. Not like the happy-go-lucky AYALAC. I’ve always given my undivided and fanatical support to our Michael.

A lasting legacy of Vaughan’s stay hopefully might a sane selection policy. I policy where random goons from Victoria aren’t picked for one match.

We will mainly remember him for winning the Ashes. Which he did in 2005. With some others. He may be remembered for his golden year in 2003, where he averaged over 70 and pounded all that stood against him.

He will be remembered for his grace at the crease and wonderfully flowing drives. He litters countless scorecards with pretty 30s and 40s. And a few 190s.

Michael Vaughan was an excellent England captain, that used modest resources to produce a period of dominance for England cricket that they unlikely to see again for many years.

Top work.

Cheerio Mr Captain Sir.